MGMT @ The Beat Club

The use of the acronym in band nomenclature has a chequered history. For every successful deployment as a less verbose alternative (the odds on Anni-Frid-Benny-Bjorn-Agnetha scoring 9 UK number ones would undoubtedly be long) there are half a dozen misguided also-rans, guaranteed to leave you squeamish upon unscrambling (Epsom Mad Funkers anyone?). Brooklyn duo MGMT – boasting the same syllable count as their former guise The Management – fall somewhere in between. Slightly more mysterious, a tad less authoritative, but going by some of the organisational nous behind their debut Scottish show in Glasgow tonight, decidedly inappropriate.

After scoffing at the hoards of behooded bairns queuing in the rain for The Dykeenies across the road at the ABC, the first intimation of poor administration comes with the news that MGMT would not be taking the stage until midnight. Set opener Weekend Wars is one of the highlights of MGMT's album, but as it's jangly acoustics are drowned out by an understandably pissed-up Friday night crowd, the second indication of misguidance is unveiled. The plush new Beat Club may look nice, but the sound just ain't up to scratch. Next time out, maybe MGMT should try and negotiate a primetime slot at King Tut's.

Nonetheless, a restless, sold-out venue needs appeasing and with a workmanlike rendition of their debut album Oracular Spectacular, they just about succeed. Five minutes into the set, MGMT make acquaintance with their strongest ally of the night and ultimately, the main component to their success: noise. A quick kick of a bass drum and an upping of the pace proves an effective conversation killer and reminds the crowd why they've come. If an early rendition of crowd pleaser Time To Pretend alleviates the fidgety atmosphere, then lead singer Andrew VanWyngarden takes full advantage, aping glam demi-God Marc Bolan on a stomping, ramshackle take on The Handshake. And as long as the cacophony continues, the duo do no wrong. The empyreal Kids has a galvanising effect, as the erstwhile largely inanimate New Yorkers descend into a loose and rumbustious cover of Smells Like Teen Spirit. Although the palpably poor acoustics grate when given the chance (on downpaced Pieces Of What), scuppering any designs on the oracular or the spectacular, this, on their Scottish bow, is certainly a job well done.