It's as hard to take violent offence at Cast as it is to particularly like them. They're one of several bands cursed with the tag Dadrock, which denotes a tendency to wear slippers, musically speaking. Revolutions come and revolutions go - there'll always be a Cast, rehashing the sounds to which 1968 thrilled. Their novelty depends on singer-songwriter John Power, a loveable scally given to pronouncing at length on music and the world with all the insight of a flowerchild of the era his music recalls.

When the band's London date was postponed three weeks ago because Power lost his voice, the problem was as much that we'd be denied his Scouse chatter as his songs. Yet the frontman's was a half-Powered, banter-free performance at this rescheduled gig. The band's performance was admirably tight, but lacked the spark of charisma, or passion, which might have made a great show from good music.

Cast were here to showcase their recent album Magic Hour, which signalled a tentative move away from perfectly crafted rock nuggets in the direction of prog. It's as if Power and co, dissatisfied with merely replicating the sound of 60s bands, want to relive their career curve too. What Cast do best is the bouncy, inoffensively meaty rock-pop roustabout - witness recent single Beat Mama, or Fine Time. The eyes glaze over and the mind wanders from their efforts at Verve-style emoting and pomp. The band's concluding wig-out, against a shamelessly retro backdrop of lurid spiralling lights, was remarkable only for its stodgy refusal to take flight into psychedelia. What Cast do, they do likeably and expertly; but they're not exciting and they're not transcendent.