The last few times Norfolk's Magoo have come to play in London, it's been in tiny venues like this and generally ill-attended after zero hype. There are about 40 people left in Dublin Castle's back room by the time they start at nearly 11. Most folks came earlier to see The Pictures, who were laughable but have someone from Kenickie in. This is fucking sick, people: you're missing a national treasure, you're missing one of our greatest ever bands.

Magoo have expanded to a six-piece live setup, which makes a drastic change to the sound. As well as the usual huge guitars and Andrew Raynor's unique child-savant singing, there's a percussionist and a keys player, one on either side of the stage. The new female keyboardist takes on a lot of the backing vocals, which frees Owen Turner up to concentrate on his incendiary guitar work. Tonight, Turner is a dizzy revelation: One solo was the most perfect, vicious and carefree example of lead guitaring I've heard on any stage in five years. His fiery intelligent spontaneity is worth fifty indie punk bands on its own. That percussive new mix is good too. They're focused enough nowadays to make spikiness work and sometimes you get tinkling percussion, live drums and loops all at once, yet it ain't messy; it grooves.

Somehow, Magoo are currently unsigned. What a fucking disgrace that the only British band to truly rival what American psychedelic heroes like Flaming Lips and Grandaddy are doing (and don't give me no Clearlake or British Sea Power nonsense, this isn't a bandwagon job) is missed by a crowd who'd adore that expansive, listenable noise. This is a wonderful band in a horrible place at a difficult time. Go and see Magoo.