Long before the centre of attention neared the stage, you could sense the electric buzz to this gig.

Signs at the entrance insisted the show was definitely sold out, while indie dudes and dudettes rammed the floor and lined the stairs, all sharp haircuts and stripey clothes.

Given the object of their affections is yet another fine example of how to galvanise the selling power of the internet, it stood to reason that the intimate venue felt like a Myspace convention.

Jamie T was among friends from the second he bounded into the spotlight, relishing his role as humble storyteller to create a camaraderie with the crowd which he could probably maintain were his next stop Wembley.

The sarf London geezer draws a vocal truce between the stream-of-consciousness slur of Pete Doherty and the lairy squawk of Mike Skinner, chucking in a venomous arsenal of expletives between songs for good measure.

If he ever loses the knack of knocking out jangly acoustic singalongs, the swagger of the tunes themselves suggests he could always get a job on an EastEnders market stall.

His bouncy tales of laddism have already left the NME swooning, with a drummer and backing accomplices allowing him to move from poetic solo strumming to impish ska rock without having to rely on artificial loops and machines.

This dextrous blend of styles, allied to the witty urban romanticism of his lyrics, gave his snapshots of ordinary life a Clash-like thunder which set his talent out as anything but ordinary.

It all felt uncannily reminiscent of the date the Arctic Monkeys ripped through in an equally small Brighton setting about a week before they shot to stadium-size prominence.

Will Sunday's audience be able to say they witnessed part of a similar ascendancy?