The Ting Tings, Astoria, London

She shrieks, she stomps, she scores
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The Independent Culture

Every year, there is a song that becomes a soundtrack for the summer. This year's will undoubtedly be The Ting Tings' "That's Not My Name", which this week reached No 1, dethroning Madonna, no less. Harking back to Toni Basil's 1982 hit "Hey Mickey", it joins that canon of dance floor-friendly songs that in future will prompt many of this audience to turn to each other and ask, "Do you remember?"

The same couldn't be said for the Salford duo's debut album, We Started Nothing, released this week and played bar one track in its entirety in tonight's short set. Aside from their three catchy singles and "Be The One" (all near-perfect pop creations), that The Ting Tings have just a handful of extremely good pop songs is apparent from the crowd's lack of interest in the rest.

Last year, The Ting Tings were hotly tipped to make it big in 2008, and this summer they make their second Glastonbury appearance. It's a time of celebration for the pair, whose inauspicious beginnings as a trip-hop trio Dear Eskiimo saw them dropped from their major label before they had even released a single.

Opening on bass guitar, Jules de Martino, in his white, motif-emblazoned T-shirt and shades, could have stepped off a plane from Ibiza. But it's when Katie White appears, oozing star quality, that the crowd are really impressed. She takes to the synth for "We Walk", which starts off minimal, with stroppy, shouty vocals reminiscent of Shampoo and the Spice Girls, then breaks into a gloriously slinky Ryksopp-style beat, which builds percussive volume and flickering strobes into a house vibe. The pair maintain tight control, and the visuals are good, too live images of the duo alternate with colourful TV static, mirroring the giddy exuberance of their vibrant bursts of synth pop.

In a moment that recalls the duo's first gig, in which White forgot to turn on her amp, at the beginning of their single "Great DJ" her guitar isn't plugged in. As de Martino keeps the beat going, White has the crowd clapping and seemingly ignores whatever the hormonal boys in the front row have written on bits of paper and are brandishing. Surmounting the hurdle, the duo carry it off, their first single a stomping success.

With de Martino planted behind the drum kit, it is White's job to sustain the audience's interest and the 23-year-old has sass in bucketloads. She also knows the moves, stepping on to the drum platform to sing and stalking the stage lip to be closer to her many fans. And she certainly keeps her roadie busy, hurling the mic stand behind her in diva-like fashion.

In a change of tone, a slow-paced "Traffic Lights" proves that White has a silky and fluid voice when she's not shout-singing to their synth-punk pop numbers. But the audible chatter during it shows that the crowd are here for the upbeat songs such as "Shut Up and Let Me Go", which follows, its staccato guitar riff as sharp and sassy as White's lyrical delivery.

"That's Not My Name", about the lack of identity in the music industry, is met with predictable enthusiasm, and the whirlwind set is all over in 45 minutes. We're left wondering if this band of the moment will last, or if its existence will be as fleeting as this gleeful performance.

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