The gods of technology aren't being kind to Damn Arms today. What little of their set they manage to get through arrives sans guitar in what is evidently a valiant struggle with a nonchalant Cardiff crowd and a less than responsive sound engineer. They knock out just a couple of chunks of synth-led disco rock before throwing the towel in and leaving the stage looking as thoroughly dejected as they did on it.

Help! She Can't Swim don't fare a lot better in the sound stakes. The deafening guitars threaten to dominate throughout, leaving the onstage chemistry of Leesey and Tom to be the defining factor in the performance. One minute draped over each other, the next whizzing around the stage like snugly-attired catherine wheels, they play out a moody relationship dynamic whilst yelping ironic scenester-baiting lyrics like "I want a t-shirt that says who I am" from 'Are You Feeling Fashionable'. It's hard to tell at times whether they truly believe in their indier-than-thou image or whether they're playing out some elaborate joke on exactly the people who are dancing along to them, but their knack for spindly punk rock and shout-along choruses see them through with tremendous vigour. Two new songs don't quite have the same urgency as material off their debut album, one uncharacteristically straightforward and the other a dual-synth rush to the finish. With time, the new material is sure to settle into what is already an incendiary half hour.

With a certain amount of inevitability, the noise erupting from the speakers during the headline set is truly atrocious, but this time the fault lies more with man than machine. Test Icicles manage to out I-don't-give-a-fuck even the band they follow, spreading a thick layer of irony over every guitar strum and embarrassing rock star pose. In fact, of the eight or so songs they 'play', only one is with any sense of coherence. This brief glimpse of how a shambolic live show can be visually and musically exciting is a sad reminder of how good the boys can be when they're not lost in their own self-importance. Following a lazy lounge version of 'Circle, Square, Triangle', Dev responds to being booed and heckled with "but you paid us money!" at once summing up their arrogant, obnoxious behaviour and starting a war of words on the Myspace page they refer to as usual.

Chants of "we want a refund" replace chants of "you're shit and you know you are" as the trio, more and more amused and impressed with themselves, lap it up 'til the end. Even when the stage is emptied, half the crowd wander around in a daze, not quite sure what to make of an act they held in such high regard just an hour or so ago. The main problem with the Icicles' demeanour is that nowadays, believe it or not, bands care. Conor and Chan: two examples of performers who, even when putting on a bad show, put up a fight to win the crowd back. A band can rarely afford to display a complete disregard for the people who are keeping them stocked with Marlboro Lights and tight jeans and get away with it. Tonight people stream out into an all-encompassing cold mourning the money spent in vain: only the most stubborn and idiotic (a gaggle of such people hanging around the dressing room door afterwards, pens and seven inches in hand) would even entertain the thought of placing trust this readily again. It's just not cricket.