There are many things that make Britain iconic, from its magnificent Victorian architecture to its dominance as an empire of production, but as characteristics they’re ones that now only seem to reside on the cracked pages of school history books. And it’s sad to know a history so lucrative in creativity is being lost to the empire of technology. It’s perhaps most welcome then, that a band so iconic to Britain’s indie youth finds themselves coming home to the magnificent Alexandra Palace, the place they passed as teenagers with big dreams a few years back. For Bombay Bicycle Club are coming home, and they’re head over heels grateful.

They play to one of the biggest audiences of their careers, watching as a sea of ten thousand people jitter in the husky blue glow of stage lights, dancing to the riffs that only three years ago existed as sketchy demos on a Myspace page.

This is the moment that every artist longs to cherish, it matters not what exists as stats in some corporate label boardroom, but the realisation that there’s an audience out there that cares for every note that passes from your guitar. An audience who want to share the moment of being in the same environment together, driven by your energy time and time again.

For Jack Steadman, this moment is the boiling down of years of hard work and emotional breakdowns, and to do this night after night just seems some ridiculous daydream imagined by the naive mind of a teenager with wild ambitions. “You might think I say this every night, but I don’t. We’ve missed you,” Jack says down the mic, mid-set.

There are moments this evening that feel as though we’re watching Bombay Bicycle Club at the pinnacle of their career (which bares the question, where next?) but at times, and although probably by no intention, they feel like a band bothered by the routine of constant touring. The last few years have raced by insanely quickly, and the trouble with releasing three records in as many years, touring off the back of all of them is that it can lead to noticeable strains. There’s still a sense of enjoyment that shines on the faces of all the band members, but every fan here tonight has probably seen Bombay a number of times in the past, and they know the routine. The set’s a predictable affair, and yes, it is full of every tune you’d expect to hear. But it’s the moments that capture the imagination that stay as the most memorable – the off the cuff remixes, the smooth slips between acoustic melancholy and all out electronic, and the pound of unpredictable samplers.

Bombay are a band far too dear to ever fall out with, but the question now is how do they slip the indie boy routine that phases the likes of Foals, and co, and grow into the regenerates of the fine age of British music. Arctic Monkeys managed the step up, and Alexandra Palace only proves that it’s Bombay Bicycle Club’s turn. But we can’t say we won’t miss the days of the bedroom recorded Jackson C Frank tributes, and the acoustic church tours. Damn you Bombay, Alexandra Palace was to be a wet goodbye for the fans of old. Because it’s your bloody brilliance that means you’ll only get bigger and less intimate from this point onwards.

Words by Robbie Wojciechowski