Last Friday saw the NME Awards Tour, tastemaker for new music, arrive at its Cambridge stop, with the big-draw Scots, Glasvegas, being supported by the bright new things of Britain's indie scene.

Show-opener Florence and the Machine, fronted by the enigmatic Florence Welch, could well be the elusive ‘next big thing', or a victim of over-hyping. Winning the Critics' Choice Award at last week's Brit Awards, it's easy to forget her album isn't out until the summer. However, her set on Friday proved she is just that special.

The NME tour has been no stranger to quirky ladies, hosting Skunk Anansie (with bald singer Skin) and CSS's Lovefoxxx in previous years; but, decorating the stage with a harpist and bird cages, Florence took bizarreness to a new level. ‘Between Two Lungs' was a stunning opening, with Welch demonically banging a drum before unleashing her incredible voice. Despite the ea rly stage time, a considerable crowd had gathered for last year's single ‘Kiss with a Fist', though it sounded tame in comparison to werewolf-inspired new track ‘Howl'. With such a mesmerising stage presence, the Kate Bush and Bjork comparisons are obvious. Her cover of ‘You Got The Love' could have wiped the floor with Candi Staton, providing a thrilling set closer and a fantastic start to the night.

Where so many young bands thrust into larger venues fail, White Lies have upped their game perfectly. Harry McVeigh's vocals feel as effective as ever, particularly in opener ‘Farewell to the Fairground', and their bass-heavy tracks sound stronger here, the band keeping the delicacy of their record, without sacrificing any power from their show.

With a back catalogue that's more than a little dark, White Lies' show was so perfectly maudlin. But the songs aren't slow dirges, dragging around emotionally-drenched, dying melodies; these are tracks played with pace and potency. Particularly in a venue like the Corn Exchange, those at the back experience a very differen t show to those standing nearer to the stage. Here, White Lies set themselves apart; Friday's set permeated the whole crowd, not just those at the front of the stage. And in introducing their last song by saying "We are White Lies, this is ‘Death'", they may well be contenders for the best line used to close a show ever.

There's something quite remarkable about Friendly Fires' live show. Relatively sedate in interviews, the pounding funk of opener ‘Lovesick' transformed frontman Ed McFarlane into an irrepressible dancing machine. Utterly compelling, the band's fast-paced set maintained momentum with the early highlight ‘Jump in the Pool'. Its layered percussion was matched by a frenetic red and blue light show, interspersed with lasers, for a sublime rendition of ‘Skeleton Boy'.

The sheer dance potential of Friendly Fires' self-titled debut has been criminally overlooked: with the exception of the superb balearic Aeroplane remix of ‘Paris', it's a shame DJs haven't transformed tracks like ‘White Diamonds' into the bona fide anthems they are live. Even in more downtempo moments li ke ‘Ex-Lover', it was impossible not to be carried away by the sublime synth-laden euphoria of the most entertaining band on the line-up.

And so the headliners finally make their appearance. The figures of James Allan and his clan emerge to rapturous applause, barely discernible against the blacked-out stage. A brief pause, a mumbled introduction from the frontman, and Glasvegas explode into ‘Geraldine'. The guitars serrate the air and the drumming has a tribal feel, before Allan's Scots howl ekes every drop of emotion out of the lyrics.

From here on in, there is no let up. ‘It's My Own Cheating Heart...' and ‘Flowers and Football Tops' are blasted out in all their cathartic anthemic glory, the latter extended until every brick in the Corn Exchange was ringing to its Victorian foundations. Who ever said that shoegazing was dead? With My Bloody Valentine's resurgence last year, and Glasvegas' JAMC-like wall of noise, we should all throw our hands in the air in joyous rapture (and hope that those hands contain earplugs). The headliners' set seemed to sustain a feedback-drenched energy throughout, barely wasting a second of its short intensity.

And, in a haze of hair gel, Raybans and distortion, the band leave the stage. Our ears ringing and our eyes dazzled by the flashes of what has to be one of the best light shows of recent times, you can't help but leave contented: any concerns for the future of British music were quite ably, and loudly, washed aside on Friday night.