Now that every MacBook is an Abbey Road studio you can destroy with one fumbled Frappuccino, it can seem as though 87% of Americans have become frazzled troubadours knocking out no-fi fuzz-folk albums in the hope of bagging the ultimate US-indie prize: the company of Zooey Deschanel. At the forefront of this hirsute horde is Philadelphia's Kurt Vile, purveyor of psychedelic folk with hints of Neil Young, Bob Dylan, the Velvet Underground and a very stoned Fleetwood Mac. Vile is one of the scene's least recognisable figures, too – he tunes up on stage for five minutes before anybody in the crowd realises it's him.

Though stark, esoteric and charming on record, his music can become as anonymous in a live setting as he is. He has three gears. First is the slacker busker, played with foul-mouthed dischord on Can't Come, with a pastoral flounce on Peeping Tomboy, and drowned out by crowd chatter on My Best Friends (Don't Even Pass This). Second is strident, grunge revivalist who drapes On Tour with Sonic Youth's serrated satin and who yelps through the gnarled rock hoedown, Freeway. And third is the deployer of the hypnotic psych drone, such as the one that brings Smoke Ring for My Halo to a climax akin to a modern Venus in Furs.

Grunge always needed strong melodic focus, or blasts of epic noise, to stop it sounding like Dinosaur Jnr being dragged through a muddy ditch. Vile, with his sporadic wafts of tunefulness, suffers accordingly. It's telling that two of the most riveting songs tonight are covers: Bruce Springsteen's Downbound Train and Spacemen 3's Hey Man. Vile's own hit-and-miss work lacks the force and character to own the theatres just yet – even his own band linger on stage at the end, not realising he has gone.