Frontman Luke Pritchard did his best in an animated skip about, thrash around the stage kind of way. A good try, but he smacked of nerves as he kept his head down and face guarded by his curly fringe, consistently fluffing some pretty foreign in between song chatter.

Still there was promise, which Virgin have rightly spotted, with some much heavier, snottier numbers which should eventually dispel the Supergrass comparisons. Even so, it was often lost in an appalling sound setup which was consistently reduced to spitty cymbals and overpowering bass. The better moments tended to be the explicitly melodic ones (In Love, Matchbox). A bit more gigging, a better soundman and better diet is definitely on the menu.

There's a period of time when the brain contracts due to lack of neural activity. The eyes roll upwards to the to the left just as oxygen and stimuli get dangerously low in the upper cortex. New stimuli has to occur otherwise you end up like Muhammed Ali. But it often does, though this is more commonly known as daydreaming and you experience a hell of a lot of it watching Nine Black Alps go through their rigorous motions.

If The Kooks were shy iccle boys, Nine Black Alps are teenagers who have just discovered drink, dope and Nevermind. Like many a teenager in their first proper rock band there is a strict code to follow - intros populated by scuzzy Sonic Youth squalls (complete with drumstick molestation of the fret board). Wiry sweat soaked hair. Guitars low slung and, imperatively, crushing wind milling followed by infliction of painful looking personal injury the Opus Dei would be proud of, though involving instruments or huge stage dives. It'll be a surprise if this bunch last much longer. Then again there was a significant sect of 14-year-olds to the left bobbing and moshing cheerfully. Sam Forrest was either patronising us or cleverly addressing his real audience with a sly "thanks kids."

Fresh faced, clean shaven and with a twinkle in his eye, Rivers Cuomo has a spectacular inability to physically age. Mentally he is a mystery. This was the fourth time in as many years I had gone to a Weezer show. Cuomo's mood had always determined the band on the night. In year one Cuomo was shy and slowly learning to return to the stage. In year two he was a coked up mess. In year three he was a grumpy, bearded autocrat. In year four, he seemed reborn.

He was now suddenly embracing the spotlight he so often shunned. He was engaging the fans who so endeared him, yet whom he could not seem to commune with. He jarred and struck classic rock poses playing off his geekish demure. Is this Rivers Cuomo? Is it another schizo moment? And then he went back, "way back to the first song, from the first album." Elation as blue light fused with the magical melody of My Name Is Jonas. They had already dropped Undone just two songs in. But they just kept coming - No One Else, Why Bother, El Scorcho.

You had the pinch yourself to make sure this was real. But nothing could have prepared you for the moment Cuomo discreetly crept up to the balcony during the interval. "Over here!" he hollered. Sure enough there he was with an acoustic guitar at the front row of the balcony for Island In The Sun. Remarkably he still had time to race back down and trade places with Pat Wilson for Photograph.

Whatever has Cuomo going again, I don't think there was a single soul in the Apollo who didn't hope that it stayed. Maybe it's a new lease of life, maybe it's some kind of special K. Or perhaps he's finally grown up. Maybe this shy, slightly troubled boy is now his own man.

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Mercury Prize 2009 nominees