Earlier this year, the Government banned tobacco advertising. It should have sounded the death knell for The Tindersticks' career.

Singer Stuart Staples, his mumbling baritone pitched somewhere between Nick Cave and Vic Reeves in "club" style, led his collective through two hours of dark waltzes.

It is music for red wine, broken dreams and cigarettes and the "no smoking" signs taped to the door didn't stand a chance.

"How old are you?" yelled one wag as Staples lit up for the first time. "Thirty-seven and still smoking," was the reply.

In seconds, the Victorian venue was illuminated by tiny orange glows.

Until, hilariously, midway through another dream-like cacophony of drums, piano and wailing violin, the smoke set the fire alarms off.

That the band managed to return minutes later and recapture the mood is testament to the tender power of their streetlight serenades.

Material from latest album, Waiting For The Moon, suggests The Tindersticks could be lightening up. The rest of us are just lighting up.