There's something pathological about a band who journey all the way from New York to play in the upstairs room of a pub, but the Lapse are that band. So far underground they probably smell of coal dust, they've endured 10 years of extremely minor cultdom without anything approaching "success". Before that, they toiled in the even more obscure Van Pelt.

None of this - not even the recent split with long-term band/life partner Toko Yasuda - seems to have dampened main man Chris Leo's fearsome spirit. When he spits out "We are the rejects", it's more a cry of pride and defiance than a sulk about not being even a thousandth as big as the Spice Girls.

Quite why the Lapse aren't better known (although they do attract a pub full of devotees) is a mystery. Perhaps Leo - on this evidence one of the great anti-establishment, anti-mainstream pop poets - would have it no other way. It's surely nothing to do with their music. Close to the UK post-punk rattle of the Fire Engines and the Fall, with added waves of glorious Husker Du melody-drama and Leo's Richard Hell-ish, agitated vocals, the trio's spiky anthems are so hook-laden they seem instantly memorable. In another world, a handful of them - not least the urgent Speed Train - would be recognised as real classics.

With their combat fatigues and belligerent grins, the band could have come straight from the set of Mash. Leo's resemblance to Iggy Pop playing Hawkeye is uncanny, but more remarkable is the sheer passion and hard work they bring to such a tiny arena.

By the end, the sweat-soaked drummer looks like he has been run over by a car, but the Lapse have proved an important point. Big may be back, but small can still be infinitely more beautiful. The Lapse play Underworld, London NW1 (020-7482 1932), tonight.