Our digital age affords us all sorts of metrics by which to gauge a band's buzz, from MySpace play counts to iTunes chart placements to Twitter trending topics. But last night's waaaay sold out xx/Friendly Fires double bill at the Phoenix presented an even more convincing set of measurements. Like, the number of feet away from the Phoenix — roughly 600, at the northeast corner of Sherbourne and Carlton — I encountered the first of many non-scalper ticket-seekers begging me for an extra ducat to sell. Or the number of Beaconsfield, Social and Wrongbar staffers who used this show as an occasion to book the night off work (roughly eight).

But this was the rare case where anticipation ran as high (or even more so) for the opening act as the headliner; since this gig was announced last September, London mope-pop trio the xx have all but monopolized the indie-music press on both sides of the Atlantic, to the point where the band has already suffered through its first bout of post-hype exhaustion, losing a member in the process. As such, there were no lack of Toronto hipsters bemoaning the fact that the band's local debut would see them serving as support for seemingly dichotomous dance-rock crew Friendly Fires in a big-room concert theatre. But the match-up proved to be an inspired yin-yang pairing, the sublimated desire and pent-up yearning simmering beneath the xx's robo-R&B balladry ultimately released through the Friendly Fires' ecstatic electro-funk.

Given the xx's suitably minimalist set-up — microphones for singer/guitarist Romy Madley Croft and singer/bassist Oliver Sim, with hand-tapping beat juggler Jamie Smith's drum pads resting atop a rack that displayed the band's illuminated logo — it was easy to imagine that the pouring rain outside less as an act of god than a premeditated special effect. But, despite their dour demeanour, the xx are keenly aware of the inverse relationship between their resolutely stark, austere presentation and the raving, libidinous reaction their self-titled debut album has inspired — seriously, there was a couple standing in front of me making out through the entire set like they were auditioning for the sequel to 9 Songs — and thus made subtle yet effective adjustments to adapt their brittle lullabies for the big stage.

In effect, their minimalist pop was deconstructed even further, dropping key elements in and out of the mix to play up the contrasts: the first verse of "Islands" was delivered without its motorik backbeat, making its emergence on the chorus all the more rousing; Sim's ethereal serenade "Fantasy" came awash in a fearsome brown-note buzz, but that shock of bone-rattling noise cleared the way for Croft's devastating "Shelter," which deserves a hallowed place in the goth-ballad canon alongside Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt." (That performance alone confirmed Croft as the Susan Boyle of UK indie: the awkward wallflower with the voice of an angel.) The xx even worked up something close to aggression with the closing one-two of the Afro-funked "Night Time" and "Infinity," which climaxed with Sim tomahawking Smith's lone ride cymbal with mallets, yielding a rare, but highly satisfied smile. 

That the xx's brief 36-minute set was actually shorter than the ensuing 40-minute changeover seemed to encourage the notion the headliners would be faced with a mass exodus following their hotly hyped openers. But not only did Friendly Fires hold onto the capacity crowd, they thoroughly pleased it. The St. Alban's, UK trio — fleshed out into a six-piece onstage, complete with two strategically deployed horn players and dual drum kits — essentially provide a highlight-reel summary of the past decade of dance-rock crossovers: the dexterous, textured disco workouts of the !!!/LCD Soundsystem, the suave, debonair pop of Franz Ferdinand, even the stadium-baiting anthemery of The Killers (the latter quality spared for set-closing, chest-thumper "Paris"). But when faced with the band's relentless rhythmic precision (percussionist Jack Savidge surely earned his right to a drum riser) and sweat-soaked singer Ed Macfarlane's charming let's-play-Let's-Dance-era-David-Bowie-in-front-of-the-mirror routine, the response is less "heard it all before" and more like "let's hear it again." And besides, Friendly Fires' retro-'80s fetishism is ultimately not so much about recapturing a specific sound as a certain romance — when Macfarlane sings "you and me in the photobooth," he's seeking the sort of tangible connection and intimacy you just don't get from a bunch of self-snapped cameraphone pics on Facebook.