The Ting Tings, Shepherds Bush Empire, London

While some of The Ting Tings' recent tour appearances have been greeted with breathless choruses of approval, for me this outing was something of a blip in their inexorable rise to pop stardom. Their mantle of being the "next big thing" – which was widely trumpeted at the beginning of this year – has now been cast off. But as the freshness of their sound dissipates, on the basis of tonight's performance one might issue a cautionary note before considering what lies in store for the duo after their No 1 album, We Started Nothing, and single – the relentlessly catchy "That's Not My Name".

The thing about this group, consisting of Jules De Martino on drums, guitar and vocals, and Katie White on vocals and guitar, is that for every slightly clever, poppy hook comes a marginally annoying tick. "That's Not My Name", which reached No 1 in May, is undoubtedly brilliant. It is infectious, and ramps up to a spine-tingling crescendo, but there is still as much disappointing material in their repertoire as there are jaunty pop smashes. Tonight, this was exacerbated by constant technical problems with White's guitar, which was unfortunate given the small number of songs they played.

The band appeared at 9pm to bang out the hour-long set. De Martino arrived first, carrying himself diffidently to his drum kit, and placing his guitar on his lap, before thumping on his bass drum and throwing out a medley of snarling chords. Then White skipped on to join him, the consummate pop idol, her jittering legs in yellow pixie boots, with a blonde fringe blanketing her face. All this served to introduce the opening track of "We Walk", which was set up with some visuals projected on to a screen at the back of the stage. These declaimed in words, proudly, "How big are the small things?" – a hint at the story to come, as White moved through what seemed to be the tale of a flatlining relationship (of one sort or another). "If it all goes wrong, we walk, we walk," she merrily chirped. One note: when she sings, she has a pretty, if not all-encompassing voice, but when she shouts, which is often, the resultant squeak has great potential to grate.

They followed this opener with "Great DJ", yet another example of their natural talent for catchy choruses, and, for the first (and not the last) time, people sprang to their feet in the seated areas to dance along. The stage was decorated with raised, square platforms, of various heights, on to which White jumped at different points with a sprightly, engaging energy that mirrored that of her numerous fans. Presumably these squares were a gimmick to make up for the fact that there were just the two of them on stage, although their constant instrument-swapping demonstrated a certain amount of virtuosity, too.

They then ran through many of the numbers that graced We Started Nothing: "Fruit Machine", with its bubblegum mentality ("You keep playing me like a fruit machine, overstretch your generosity"), "Traffic Light", "Be The One", "We Started Nothing" (again, people sprang up to jig along), finishing predictably (and impressively) with "That's Not My Name".

Much whooping ensued from all concerned, slightly dispiritingly. If there was anything edgy and undiscovered about the band it has since evaporated, and it was all a bit more hedge fund than Hoxton. All in all, you cannot help but think that while the band's set-up might be a nod to The White Stripes, their mainstream aspirations and Day-Glo optimism make them more akin to one-time X-Factor brother-sister combo Same Difference.

One last gripe. De Martino, who says that he wears sunglasses for medical reasons (it is not, we are told, simply an annoying "rock star" affectation), also likes to swear at the audience, and pins a lot of attitude to his sleeve. Whether he was acting like this in response to drunken stick he was getting, it was unclear. But if you want to see a man from Wigan swear at you, just go to Wigan, don't buy a ticket to a concert. At least then you won't have to pretend it is entertainment.