Live: Totally Live Forever. Maybe? Foals, Camden Roundhouse.

More artists than Alan Sugar has business lunches in a working week, that've collectively sold almost as many records as he's fired employees, it can only be the return of the iTunes Festival to the faded decadence of Camden and London's latest and greatest venue, the Roundhouse. A little over a year ago, Northern Irish sweethearts Two Door Cinema Club were playing to a dozen Glastonbury dozers in a nameless tent that no longer exists. With debut LP Tourist History inscribed into many a playlist, its bustling, unashamedly poppy guitars tonight jangled beneath foppy fringes the boys are back in town. London town. At a slightly more sociable hour compared with their opening Other Stage slot at this year's Worthy Farm hoedown, Sunday night's never experienced such sweat-drenched Topman shuffle since Cazals called it a day, yet when insatiable Fenders gleam with such reverb and panache, bolstered by a rhythm section tighter than Michael Eavis' lips veer into view, a tour of Two Door Cinema Club's indie sensibilities is an irrefutable offer. Undercover Martyn thrives on tinnitus hi hats, ADHD guitars and a flurry of colliding electronics that descends into a haze of cacophonous majesty, before subsiding entirely, the anthemia of forthcoming single Come Back Home breaking slightly the trio's relentless rapidity with which they whip through half an hour. This Is The Life is sweeter than Lily Allen in Dylan's Candy Bar at the core of the Big Apple, Something Good Can Work swivels on the most persistent guitar line since Manic Street Preachers went back to their (vaguely) anarchical roots and What You Know sees more globules of sweat drip than there are beads in Bolivia. In a jolted daze, the rebounding vocals of I Can Talk seem to rain down from the Roundhouse's convex ceiling and Alex, Kevin and Sam dart out of eyeshot as instantaneously as they've etched themselves into the NME index weekly.

Failed stage diving, ensuing crowd mauling and Twitter feuding with Lostprophets all in the space of 24 hours, laud or loathe Foals front man Yannis Philippakis he's so outlandish, outspoken and pseudo-rebellious it's an unadulterated joy to bask in his self-righteousness in controlled moderation. Sophomore record Total Life Forever represented a true reincarnation for the Oxxxford quintet, as they returned from the Swedish outback wilder, woolier and wiser, with a marimba and accompanying multi-instrumentalist in tow and tonight's opener, the LP's title track bursts with treble trouble guitars finally played beneath the twelfth fret, tribal chanting, and Yannis clambering over every last monitor like the cellophaned goat he carts around in that Spanish Sahara video before whatever happened happened. A rejuvenated Cassius, stripped of brass follows, bolting from the blocks like chasing the scent of Cheryl Cole, before the resonant harmonics of Olympic Airwaves reinvigorate Foals' lengthy abstinence from instant relevance. Whilst the final bombast of Red Socks Pugie, The French Open, Two Steps Twice and an Electric Bloom that sees Yannis brutally ravaged by a writhing throng of adoring human sweatboxes is as devastatingly brutal as Sean Kingston stamping on your toes, it's newer cuts Alabaster (their "stoner song") and the tropically tinged Miami that empower above all. And then there's Spanish Sahara. Sprawling celestially over seven of what ought to be the Roundhouse's most historic minutes, its ethereally eerie vapidity invokes a similar grandiosity to the calculated growth and catastrophic dissolving of polar ice caps as hairs prick and a sense of collective despair shrouds out the rest of the set, like genuine dry ice imported from the northerly nether regions of Sweden. Quite how such a euphorically unique moment translates to MP3 can then be gauged almost instantaneously once within reaching distance of an iTunes/ iPhone/ iPad/ iPod/ iChip you'll presumably be able to lodge into your cerebral matter this time next year.

Illustration courtesy of Hermine.