Discounting Hanky Panky, a downright bizarre collection of Hank Williams covers released in 1995, it's been seven years since The The's last album, Dusk, but, standing inside the Garage, you'd never know it. Leader Matt Johnson has spent the past two decades constructing a personal cocoon of claustrophobia laced with venom that will enable him to exist outside of time as the rest of the music world measures it, and tonight it seems to finally be complete. It's hard to imagine that just outside the door there's an apathetic pop scene on the verge of collapse.

The The's fanbase has the dedicated, male, slatternly, eternally student core that it's always had - slightly younger than The Fall's, slightly older than The Auteurs', but with essentially the same genetic make-up. These are people who've learned to be patient with Johnson (he's only made six albums of original songs in 20 years), but who've also learned that he won't let them down with even the slightest concession to fashion. They expect integrity, and, if Johnson slips, they'll let him know about it. After one less than indulgent guitar solo I hear someone shout, "He's turned into a wanker!"

On the whole, the old guard seem pleased with the new material from The The's forthcoming The Naked Self album - a heavier, more bustling affair than Dusk but with the oppressive clamour emanating from Johnson's troubled psyche, as opposed to his studio technology. Unlike his sound, Johnson's sidemen change from record to record, but tonight their tightly wound angular riffs had the chime of Television and early Roxy Music, and on Dogs of Lust and This is the Day Johnson's voice resonated with an industrial soulfulness that suggested a roll of corrugated steel wrapped around his larynx. This could be 1986. Or 1993. Or 1980. Yet it still feels like the future.

But I'm troubled by a couple of questions: The The have hardly changed in sound or lyrical preoccupations since the new-wave era, so why does their vision of apocalyptic doom seem so much more vivid and futuristic than that created by the most outlandish electronica, and why does Johnson always sound so in tune with the political troubles of the time (genetically modified foods, globalisation)? And why, despite the precision of their playing and the conviction of Johnson's anger, are The The never a truly rousing live band? Thinking about this is a bit like trying to add seven to two and make 12, so I content myself with the thought that, if you exist outside of time, you must exist outside of maths too.