Land Of Talk have always had two things working against them:

1. They have been incessantly (over)hyped and continually compared to artists of a much higher calibre than themselves. Critical comparisons were made to bands such as Throwing Muses, Dinosaur Jr and, undoubtedly due to geographical reasons, Broken Social Scene across the board (read: Pitchfork), and amounts of webzine space were dedicated/wasted on the Montreal-based three-piece months before the release of their debut album, 2006's Applause Cheer Boo Hiss.

2. Their hometown has been one of the main hubs of inventive indie music for the past ten years and with that comes an expectancy of near-genius, or at least a near-unique offering.

Both work against Land of Talk because they are nothing more than a good band. Their music is solid but devoid of anything truly memorable; all their hooks are standard fare and every idea is merely a roughly traced copy of a precedent band's, and although failing to capture the attention of an audience of 19 in a venue that holds more than 500 isn’t a fair litmus test of any band it remains to be said that Land Of Talk fall far short of reaching the mark of their peers, as admittedly unrealistic a task that it may be.

Though even without all this they would still be no more than a vaguely tasteful hors d'œuvre before Menomena's set, an hour-long journey on transmogrifying roads through euphoric indie-pop and hyperactive rock 'n' roll.

Unlike Land of Talk, Portland's own possess creativity and ingenuity in bounds. Their latest full length Friend And Foe, from which their set is composed in the main part, is a bubbling miasma of relentless enthusiasm, full of exotic and foreign, yet grandiosely realised, ideas.

Their live show is no different. Like kindred spirits Akron Family and Anathallo, their delivery of every single line and riff is so ecstatic that every song takes on a new sense of joyous urgency.

'Wet And Rustling', a downbeat number falling somewhere between Mew and Arcade Fire's darker moments on record, becomes an epic cacophony of cymbals and straining vocals and 'The Pelican' spirals into a blistering off-kilter heavy-rock anthem.

Menomena are not a band that need to be seen live to be appreciated – the majority of their recorded output falls somewhere between interesting and downright necessary – but they are one that thrives in the environment and, unlike their tour support, bring new life to their material and wonderment from anyone lucky enough to see them.