Welcome back. In the musical equivalent of a tubby girl trying to squeeze into size 12 clothing, last night Arctic Monkeys played a venue far too small for them. They may argue such unnecessary downsizing keeps them close to their roots. The reality meant a touts' paradise outside and unpleasant cramming and moistening inside.

Their return heralds the release of their second album, Favourite Worst Nightmare. Thousands of words will be written about it. In truth, four are sufficient: mostly as you were.

Favourite Worst Nightmare may not be released until 23 April, but those who had managed to acquire tickets had also heard some of it and the fervid audience were singing along before Alex Turner had reached the opening line to Brianstorm. Then they joined him in hijacking Duran Duran's Save A Prayer ("save it for the morning after") on Teddy Picker.

Mercifully, some musical secrets had been kept and the joy of playing unknown material after spending two years belting out essentially the same set liberated Arctic Monkeys, particularly swashbuckling drummer Matt Helders who, for all his group's indie youth club orthodoxy, was clearly born to rock.

If Balaclava, This House Is A Circus and Do Me A Favour traded upon the trademark Arctic Monkeys thump, Old Yellow Bricks unveiled a bolder but more thoughtful band; expanding themselves instrumentally, broadening their palette, changing their pace and avoiding the temptation to water-tread.

Some things, though, never change. For all the expense and drama of their light show, they still don the cloak of stardom with adolescent reluctance. Turner said little and that was in a dialect unintelligible to those born outside South Yorkshire. While on-stage dancing may be asking too much, something more than a shrug would be welcome. Sometimes, you just wish they'd give a little more.

Still, this left the music and Arctic Monkeys stand or fall by it alone. If the new songs promise a reinvigorated future (although recapturing their extraordinary initial momentum will always be beyond them), the older material saluted a glorious past.

The crowd took over I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor and Fake Tales Of San Francisco, while Mardy Bum and A Certain Romance still gently unfurl the poignancy of stumbling relationships.

After less than an hour and with nothing so brazenly showbusiness as an encore, they were gone. Their career won't disappear quite so quickly. Welcome back, indeed.