912 RECORD STORE DAY WITH ADAM ANT AND EDWYN COLLINS, Rough Trade West, London; 913 ADAM ANT, Hammersmith Odeon, London, Saturday 19 April 2014

The Rose Boys’ Big Day Out in Ye Olde London Town! Punk rock icon Adam Ant, surely the comeback king of this decade and one of the finest, most flamboyant, most iconic rock stars we’ve ever produced in this island nation, announced a special one-off performance of his art school punk classic debut album “Dirk Wears White Sox”, so the Budlet and I were all over that. The fact that it fell on Record Store Day opened up all sorts of possibilities for in-store appearance fun and frolics, so I kept my ear to the ground, and when Adam announced a couple of in-stores to promote the RSD special re-release of the very album he’d be playing in its’ entirety that very evening, that pretty much nailed down our plans for the day!

 

My dear lady wife was happy with said plans, so Budlet picked me up just after 10 for a swift drive up to the Smoke, parking up in a sunny Hammersmith and taking an easy tube over to the busy and very pungent – from the various street food vendors – Portobello Market. We arrived midday at Rough Trade’s tiny West store, noting with dismay the huge queue to get in, also noting a couple of speakers set up on the pavement outside. We’d surmised it was to play the in-store performance to the outside crowd, but no – a chat with the store techie confirmed the acts would be playing on the pavement! So there we were and there we stayed!

 

So, we stood behind an Ant fan extended family, including a young girl sat on the pavement in front of us, and 12.30 saw the first act in SLOW CLUB. A two-piece featuring bearded guitarist and blonde vocalist, they played some wispy and pleasant alt-country, recalling Cowboy Junkies. Their best number, “Tears Of Joy” was a bluesy chugalong with nice choral harmonies: the girl can sing, no doubt. She introduced the climax of their short set with, “We’ve got 2 numbers left, then Adam Ant will be here. I never thought I’d say that!”

 

Sure enough, about 1 pm, ADAM ANT arrived, disappearing into the bowels of the shop (“I’ll just have a coffee then I’ll be up!”), then emerging, resplendent in black leather and flat cap, along with a similarly attired cohort. He opened his set with “Cartrouble”, the by now large crowd blocking the road and singing along to this original Ants classic, then into a sleazy acoustic blues run-though of “No Fun”, announcing it with, “without Iggy there’d be no Ants, without Jonathan Richman there’d be no Ants…”. Fulsome and chatty throughout, bantering with the crowd with easy confidence, this was nevertheless a restrained performance, the voice understated, saving some in the tank for tonight. As befitted the subject of the day, “Dirk” songs dominated this set; a cheeky “Cleopatra” (introduced with, “I got into trouble for this one!” and suffixed with a comment to the family in front of us, “I hope you covered [the young girl’s] ears!”), a haunting “Never Trust A Man (With Egg On His Face)”, which benefitted most from the stripped back rendition, then after a rockabilly and T Rex cover interlude, a singalong “Physical”, to round off an exemplary if understated performance, the magic of it simply being that here was Adam Ant, playing guitar on a pavement, barely six feet in front of us!

 

Then he was gone – ushered away by a beefy security man who’d eyed the crowd up throughout, into a waiting black van and off. Fair enough really. We grabbed some lunch in a nearby public garden, then took a walk around the overpriced trinket-fest that is Portobello Market, returning in time for EDWYN COLLINS. Before his arrival, however, I had the pleasure of a quick and entertaining chat with 70’s London punk rock legend Don Letts! A lovely bloke; having noticed him shopping and approached him for a photo, his reply was, “of course mate, I’m surprised anyone still gives a shit!”

We then took a spot on the less crowded pavement for Edwyn, who, aided by a stick, walked slowly out of the shop and took a seat between 2 young guitarists to perform. Victim of a horrendous series of critical illnesses; a couple of brain haemorrhages, bouts of aphasia and MRSA, it’s remarkable the man is still here, let alone feeling the urge to perform. Still bearing the ravages of his illnesses, his speech was slow, halting and deliberate, but amazingly his singing voice was as deep, rich and resonant as ever, with astonishingly precise enunciation. “Falling And Laughing” was a beautiful joy, a playful “Rip it Up” was introduced with, “it’s a single! Back in the day…”, but the newer “Forsooth” (“a new song – like the Velvet Underground… so sorry about Lou Reed…”) was the highlight, a lush “Sunday Morning” lazy wake-up vibe, with the simple but affecting chorus of, “I’m so happy to be alive…”

 

A similarly affecting “Low Expectations” brought another lump to the old throatie, then “Bridge”, the inevitable “A Girl Like You” and an unplanned, bright “Don’t Shilly Shally” rounded off another understated yet amazing performance from a veteran rock icon. This time I managed to sneak a few words with the great man, briefly comparing survivor stories and being simply thrilled, honey, that he’s still here.

This took us to 4 pm, so we took a wander to the tube, bumping past Paloma Faith on the crowded thoroughfare, then tubed it over to Tottenham Court Road so Paul could nose around Tin Pan Alley and I could hit Forbidden Planet. We’d talked about captivating performers on the way, and I’d mentioned the riveting performance I’d witnessed from Savages’ Jehnny Beth recently, so imagine my surprise when I ran into the lovely Ms. Beth in the Planet! Another pic and chat, another highlight of the day.

 

Grabbed a tube back over to Hammersmith for samosa tea, then joined the queue at the Odeon, getting into the large, sloping floored, standing hall early doors. Amazing that this was my first time at the Odeon since the 80’s and my first time downstairs at all! We took a spot on the barriers, extreme stage right, for the supports. Openers Vuvuvultures featured a crop-haired, kinetic and angular female vocalist in suit and red tie, and a nice line in angst-ridden 80’s gloomy post-punk rock which wouldn’t have been out of place on an Editors or White Lies support. Shades also of Flesh For Lulu in some stomping gothy rock moments, and with some nice hooky choral droning, I liked them and I’d check them out again. Definitely a better proposition than main support New Killer Shoes; they showed signs of dirty rock’n’roll promise, but were all too often spoiled by unnecessary rawk posturing, unfounded arrogance and an unwelcome tendency to lapse into ska. After a clumsy cover of The Police’s “So Lonely” which showed their own material into sharp relief, their revealed their best number, a less overt and more considered song which blew the rest of their stuff away. A message to the boys and their cap throwing, hat hair, Robert Carlysle in “Trainspotting” lookalike vocalist; don’t try so hard!

 

By this time the place was heaving (surely a sell-out on the night!) and anticipatory; a false “lights out” start 10 minutes before stage-time simply adding to the anticipation. Sure enough, the place plunged into darkness at 9, and the band took the stage to no fanfare, with Adam still in his Dirk-era leathers, a quickly discarded tricorne hat the only concession at this point to his later “pop” image. Straight into the stripped staccato art school rhythm of “Cartrouble Part 1”, Adam’s yelping vocal style driving this along. As it segued effortlessly into “Cartrouble Part 2”, the place ignited, the band totally nailing it, Adam already the focal point, energetic beyond his years, a real performer at work.

 

The embryonic, confrontational Antmusic of “Dirk” was largely superbly rendered; Adam transposed verses in some of the lesser played numbers, but no biggie. Adam was again fulsome and very chatty advising how the excellent “Day I Met God”, with its’ heady rush towards a soaring, terrace chant chorus, got him, “banned from WH Smiths,” and the giggly smut of “Cleopatra” got him banned from everywhere else! Not that he cared of course; “if you find [“Cleopatra”] prurient or sexist… I don’t care!”

 

“I don’t care” seemed a spoken and unspoken mantra for Adam tonight, he was doing what he liked and damn anyone who doesn’t like it. A rambunctious “Catholic Day” saw him acting out the assassination, with a subsequent comment of, “some people thought that was a sick song, personally I thought the assassination was sick!” The backwards tape loop rhythm of “Animals And Men” was a challenge (“I’m acting cool but I’m thinking – do I have to play this again?”) met with gusto, and a final ”The Idea” was messy but totally potty, the sniggering fun element of the song propelling it above any missed chords.

 

“Dirk” over, Adam bizarrely brought a modesty screen onstage, and changed into his dandy highwayman garb behind it whilst singing “Whip In My Valise”. The second part of the set was subsequently variable for me, a tremendous “Antmusic”, prefixed by another rant in, “I’d rather make the news than take the news!”, and a wonderfully savage “Beat My Guest”  contrasted with throwaway versions of “Wonderful” and a frankly banal “Strip”. However a cacophonous “Kings Of The Wild Frontier” (“every time I sing this, it’s like the first time”), the Burundi drumbeats propelling the song along, was amazing, possibly the best single number tonight, and I piled into the mosh for the subsequent “Zerox”, always my favourite Ants number.

 

Running late, Adam and the band – featuring sterling turns from the first-incarnation Ants rhythm section Leigh Gorman and Dave Barbarossa – ploughed on through the planned encore, finishing a perverse yet overall thrilling and stunning 2+ hour set with “Physical”, then returning simply to take a well-deserved bow. I limped out of the mosh (I paid for that later!) as my brother got me a set-list from the lighting rig and we drove home after a great Rose Boy’s Day Out. Today we’d witnessed excellent performances from a couple of icons again proving age – and illness, in Edwyn Collins’ case – is no barrier to class. Just a perfect day!

 

911 BRITISH SEA POWER, Michael A Grammar, Reading Sub 89, Thursday 17 April 2014

Following British Sea Power’s triumphant return to my gigging dance card back in November last year, supporting Editors, I was certainly up for any future BSP headlining tomfoolery. So catching this early 2014 tour was a no-doubter, particularly when recent facebook friend Andy Fenton (with whom I’d started chatting thanks to his BSP t-shirt!) decided to organise a gathering for the gig. Tag along? Thanks, I do! 

So I met up with Andy, his wife and a cast of thousands (including old 80’s mate Simon Legge!) for a swift and jolly buffet-ensconced train ride to Reading for this early gig. Spent a lot of time in deep musical conversation with Andy’s friend Stuart, definitely a kindred spirit; 59 and still gigging, with a gig record stretching back to 1972 all fully documented, just like this gig book! Much of our conversation, which carried on into the venue at 7, consisted of one of us replying to the other; “yeah, I was there too!” 

So we were in place in this cool new upstairs venue, which reminded me of the old Alleycat “Live” (do all Reading venues look the same then?), for openers Michael A Grammar at an unfeasibly early 7.30. A 4-piece named after their main vocalist, they played an attractive blend of generic but tuneful indie rock, with smatterings of glam guitar and drifty 60’s psych, with a bit of polite discordant riffery and vocal interplay. Recalling for me a raft of post-Britpop bands, they made a favourable impression on these cynical ears. 

Our crowd joined us down the front, stage left, in front of the stage as ever liberally festooned with foliage and twinkling fairy lights. British Sea Power joined us at the again startlingly early 8.30, heralded by a melange of foreign radio transmissions merging into the expected Gregorian monk chanting. An evocative start, continued by their instrumental opener “Heavenly”, a moody, windswept and slow-burn epic building to a huge, widescreen crescendo, setting the tone for tonight’s proceedings. Then the stomping beat and slashing, strafing brass of “Monsters Of Sunderland”, and we were away, for some serious rock… 

Much more overtly rocking and dynamic “live” than on record, British Sea Power tonight were on top form, playing to a devoted audience and feeding off their enthusiastic response. “It Ended On An Oily Stage” was an early highlight, a powerfully swooping, sweeping epic with some extra power riffery embellishing an unexpected “big rock” ending, giving way to another tempo- and mood-changing delight in “We Are Sound”, the anthemic chorus huge and fulsome; “let’s go on into the night…” indeed! 

One fellow front row punter attracted guitarist Martin Noble’s attention, soliciting the odd response, “you had humous all over you the last time I saw you!” Then main vocalist Yan handed vocal reins over to bassist brother Neil for a lower-key set mid-section, the shimmering finale of “Loving Animals” notable here. The inscrutable Yan, his expression a mixture of quizzical pride and satisfaction, took the reins again for a meandering yet naggingly insistent and hooky “Machineries Of Joy”, giving way to a sprawling, epic “Zeus” and the chopping, tumbling chorus line of the tremendous oldie “Remember Me”. By this time we were skirting around the edges of an enthusiastic moshpit, skilfully avoiding one idiot crowdsurfing punter who was thankfully removed. The soaring, anthemic “Waving Flags” was a potent, mighty highlight, then the lengthy terrace chant anthem “All In It” ended a superb set. “Spirit Of St. Louis”, the first encore, recalled Echo And The Bunnymen, with a stretched, sinister libidinous rhythmic base providing the backdrop for an almost sinister segment of “The Clapping Song” from Yan, before the, “easy, easy,” chants for set closer “Lucifer” closed a 1 ½ hour set perfectly. Quite likely the best I’ve seen this idiosyncratic, enduring and quite unique band. Great stuff. 

Shame the journey back was such a pain in comparison – a slow train ride back took 45 minutes to do the 17 miles from Reading to Didcot, resulting in a midnight return after a 10 o’clock curfew. Bugger! But British Sea Power made it well worth the hassle tonight. Gentlemen (and lady); fine job!

910 MANCHESTER ORCHESTRA, Gang Of Youths, Bristol Fleece, Monday 7 April 2014

Another occasion, another Manchester Orchestra gig! Last time out for this band of riff-heavy Alabama tunesmiths coincided with our 6^th Wedding Anniversary; this time it was Rach’s birthday outing! This was a short small-venue tour to promote brand new album “Cope”, possibly their best and most consistently tuneful effort yet, so I was onto this before it could sell out, which it did – quickly!

 

The kids were on a sleepover at grandmas, so we had a leisurely departure to Bristol, driving into the setting sun on the M4 and parking up in time to join the queue to get in (!) following an overrunning soundcheck. We therefore had a lengthy wait for openers Gang Of Youths; a schizophrenic lot this both visually and sonically, not youthful but heavy on hair, beards and heft, their sound ranged from chugging Southern rawk, “Joshua Tree”-era U2 parched acoustic landscapes and (more often) Arcade Fire-esque textural rhythm and building crescendos, which suffered from a lack of evident tunes and overall cohesion. The kinetic, Jim Morrison lookalike vocalist was frequently understated and lost in the mix, and overall, though I really liked certain bits of certain of their often overlong songs, nothing stuck. Frustrating, really…

Took a loo break as the place filled to heaving point; with the loos now situated under the dressing rooms, I could clearly hear Manchester Orchestra vocalist Andy Hull going through his vocal scales in preparation for the performance. Professionalism, I like that. After another fiddly final set-up, the band emerged from the darkness at 9.40, powering immediately into the jagged riffery and primal screaming rush of “Shake It Out”, before following it up with their best number of the night, a brilliant “Pensacola”, the libidinous rhythm and stream of consciousness lyrics giving way to a huge terrace chant hook and massive, soaring chorus. “That was superb; have they gone too soon?” I asked Rach. I think our opinions differed on that…

At their best, Manchester Orchestra are a thunderously and thrillingly noisy riff-heavy monster, whilst still evoking the tuneful fuzzy psych-rock of the likes of Grandaddy, and the gregarious Hull is a proper singer with a high-end range which belies his bulk. However the mid-part of this set for me was slightly heavy going, with little variation in this mainly back catalogue material, the bludgeoning riffs following each other in all-too quick succession. However the devotional audience lapped it up, singing along raucously to each towering chorus, softly to the infrequent quieter breaks. Hull and the band were also enjoying themselves too, Hull particularly in fine, entertaining form; he quipped, “we booked up a load of small venues as we weren’t sure if anyone still gave a shit about our band,” then in response to a female fan shouting, “we love you!” he said, “thanks mum!” then, “if you hear a drunk [calling out] that’s my dad!”

The roaring singalong of “I’ve Got Friends” powered onto the comparatively almost delicate opening to “Colly Strings” before Hull celebrated reaching “no. 67!” with the title track of the new album, “Cope”. The set finished with a perfectly delivered a capella “The Party’s Over”, before the band went straight into the encore (“we’re only standing in that corner, what’s the point?”), Hull stating “I’m having fun – sometimes playing this depressing music can take it out of you!”, before kicking into the tumbling drums of “Top Notch”. The subsequent driving staccato-riff rhythm and cascading verse-line of the almost Nada Surf-like “Every Stone” was great, another highlight, before a final “Simple Math” segueing into the final half of “The Only One” (again not played straight! Darn!), rounded off an overall fine, fan-pleasing set which for me could’ve been better with more new numbers, with only 3 or 4 played off the new album tonight.

The evening ended on a couple of jarring notes, however; firstly their ignorant asshole of a roadie shaped up to get the drummers set-list for me following my polite request, then scrunched it up and hurled it into the far side of the crowd. Total self-important supercilious dick. Then, a lengthy and convoluted diversion back into the city (after we’d already left it!) took over 20 minutes to avoid a half-mile closure on the M32, getting us home at a bleary-eyed 12.30. Bah! Still, we’ll be back again for more Manchester Orchestra noise; next big occasion maybe?

909 STIFF LITTLE FINGERS, The Godfathers, Bristol O2 Academy, Saturday 29 March 2014

A slight variation this year on my annual “Mad March To Bristol” with The Big Man, the regular pilgrimage to see original punk rock legends Stiff Little Fingers; instead of the pair of us stomping Lauda-esque down the M4 together, this year I spent the day oop North visiting Evan and taking him to see the excellent “Captain America; The Winter Soldier” film! Thus I stomped down the M5 on my own after dropping Evan off, leaving Rich and Ady, joining us this year for some drinkies and noise, to catch the train!

 

Hit the venue at 8.30 after a swift run down the M5, a little concerned that Saturday gigs at the O2 sometimes run early. I needn’t have worried, however; after parking up suspiciously easily, I actually walked in just after support The Godfathers had kicked off their set! Met up with the boys and endured the support from the confines of the bar; despite being lauded by a few people whose musical opinions I respect, I never liked this lot first time around, finding them dour, po-faced and snarlingly aggressive sludgy post-punk rock, and time has done nothing to alter my view, I’m afraid. A surly “I Want Everything” was the only number which rose above the morass for me, and I lamented the absence of The Men They Couldn’t Hang, who complemented SLF so perfectly as support last year.

 

Took a wander down onto the floor, stage left as usual, before the band were due on, noticing the balcony was shut tonight. Pitched up therefore in a less populous but still enthusiastic crowd, behind a group of young (comparatively speaking, in this crowd of old punk rockers) and surprisingly well-dressed girls who, equally surprisingly, subsequently knew all the words to the SLF numbers! Anyway, I’m leaping ahead… SLF took the stage after a rabble-rousing intro from the finest introduction music in rock, their “Go For It” theme, and, as if sensing the buoyant mood tonight, fairly ripped into a savage opening triple salvo of “Straw Dogs”, “Wasted Life” and “Just Fade Away”. Go for it, indeed!

 

“Saturday night in Bristol!” vocalist Jake Burns announced to cheers, before a lengthy introduction for new number “My Dark Places”, which documented his recent battle with depression. This set the tone for the set’s mid-section; a smattering of new numbers culled from current Kickstarter-funded album “No Going Back” were interspersed with the familiar, first-time round, political yet accessible, sing-/ sway-along and hooky punk rock. Another newie, “When We Were Young”, concerning an 80’s drunken conversation between Burns and Phil Lynott, was followed by the resonant terrace roar of “Listen To Your Heart”, and a later “Barbed Wire Love” was introduced by Burns as, “now for “The Voice” auditions!”, referring to rakish bassist Ali McMordie’s “doo-wop” mid-song backing vocals. Burn’s subsequent comment of, “Pavarotti’s spinning in his grave!” underlined his mood tonight; the political sloganeering was toned down slightly, and the old boy actually seemed to be having fun up there tonight!

 

A sincere “Strummerville”, introduced by Burns with a tale of how The Clash changed his life, pre-empted a set conclusion as savage and dramatic as the opening salvo; “Fly the Flag”, an excellent “Tin Soldiers”, and a roaring, venomous “Suspect Device”, preceded by Burns introducing, “the gentlemen in the orchestra.” They weren’t finished, however, as after the libidinous groove of first encore “Johnny Was”, the boys returned a second time, Burns fulsomely  praising the Bristol crowd, always a favourite of the band, “ever since we supported The Tom Robinson Band at the Colston Hall in 1978!” “At The Edge” was then segued in nicely by Burns moving the closing riff up the fret to the opening note of the inevitable “Alternative Ulster”, to close another vintage evening of good company and great rock.

 

So, the 9^th time in 10 years and my 14^th overall for Stiff Little Fingers, a band who are still burning fiercely and for me are as relevant as ever. We’ll be back for more, no doubt next March!

908 HOWLER, Broken Hands, Cursor Major, Bristol Louisiana, Monday 24 March 2014

Two gigs in 3 nights, both checking out young bands with a lot of raw edges but a lot of promise. This time, it’s down to the Louisiana for Minnesota’s Howler; after my initial sighting (gig 838, over 2 years ago now!), I‘d remarked that they were “a potentially great band for 2012 and beyond, I’m glad I got to see them in a small venue”. For some reason the Vaccines-like career trajectory I’d anticipated hasn’t quite yet happened for them, despite continuing favourable press, so I’ve got another chance to see them in a small venue, promoting a new album which, rather annoyingly, came out today but my copy hasn’t arrived yet. Bah!

Still, me and old boys Beef and driver Dean set off to Brizzle in the drizzle, parking outside the venue at 8 and taking the stairs to this small room (which I swear gets tinier every time I go there!) to check out openers Cursor Major. Led by an impressively curly-haired vocalist (who in backlit silhouette could have been mistaken for Phil Lynott!) who insisted on setting up on the floor (making the venue even tinier!), they had some decent chunky pop tunes and shimmering guitar, albeit overly loud and a little unrehearsed, which reminded me on my only time of seeing The Killers, as support at Reading Fez a few years back! They put some effort into their performance, though, and toes were duly tapped. Promising, but better was to come after a break and chat downstairs, thanks to main support Broken Hands. A young black-clad 4-piece, they played an intriguing swirling psychedelia/ Krautrock melange, with languid workouts juxtaposed with some proto blues rock riffery. The vocalist (who could certainly carry a tune very well), dug out a glowing orb for a “concept” double-header of numbers about a meteor landing in Russia when he was visiting (!), the second of which, “Meteor”, was a metronomic and dramatic Krautrock groove and their best number. Music to get drugged and blissed out to, not that I do that anyway, but still very enjoyable and a band to watch.

Chatted with Broken Hands’ vocalist while Howler set up and the place emptied (!) then filled up again at their onstage time of 10.00. A slightly revised line-up, featuring a new drummer, their relaxed confidence was evident from the outset; after the guitarist remarked; “give us 5 minutes, no just joking, we’re ready now,” they burst into set opener, their best track “Back Of My Hand”. Already ensconced down the front, I gave it loads from the outset to this euphoric ramshackle garage rock delight, all the while recognising I’d probably pay for my efforts tomorrow morning…! Mainman Jordan Gatesmith, tall and angular with a green shirt featuring an antler design (!), was a howling focal point throughout this set of raw, raucous, semi-formed yet thrilling melodic US new wave. “Drip” was an old-school thrash punk speed-through with a trademark soaring, euphoric chorus, and a couple of new, frustratingly unfamiliar numbers from the new album, followed, the eerie mutant surf punk riff of “Yacht Boys” galloping into a rampant, 100 mph chorus. This was however capped by the subsequent “In The Red”, the descending bassline (I like those!) tumbling into a manic chorus, the best new song on show tonight. Great stuff.

The drummer insisted on getting the crowd to call back the phrase, “In a wee slooper” (!) midway through the set, then after a doo-wop-tastic newie “Here’s That Itch Baby Girl”, Jordan and the boys abandoned the set-list for a request from my fellow front-row dancer, the plangent shimmer of “Beach Sluts”. A swift 40 minutes set was rounded off with an unplanned encore which recalled the home-made surf punk C86-isms of early Soup Dragons, as raucous and chaotic yet controlled and fun as the set before it.

Breathless stuff. A brief entertaining chat with Jordan afterwards capped the evening well, after a set full of verve, life, colour and enthusiasm. Raw, ramshackle, elemental, garagey; bands like Howler are the lifeblood and essence of rock’n’roll, distilled to its most basic, fun, tuneful components. More power to them! And next time, it WILL be in a bigger venue!

907 NUDY BRONQUE, The Intercepteurs, The Get-Outs, Faye Rogers, Swindon Greatfield Riffs Bar, Saturday 22 March 2014

A promise kept, this one, to check out a very promising young Swindon Band in Nudy Bronque. I’d seen this lot deliver the highlight of the night in their perfect reading of Gomez’ “Whipping Piccadilly” at the “12 Bands Of Christmas” up the Vic in December, and promised myself I’d check out their own material the first chance I got. So this was it, a local stop on a short jaunt around the South West to promote their current “Moondog” EP, incredibly though only the second time I’ve ever been to Riffs!

Nevertheless, I drove out after an evening at my ‘rents stuffing myself with Chinese food, hitting the venue at 8.30 and thus wandering in midway through opener Faye Rogers’ set. The daughter of old friend Stella, she weaved some pastoral, wistful and eminently listenable tuneage over the general hubbub, delivering them with a pure, innocent sounding voice which recalled Harriet from The Sundays, or Tanya from Belly. Good stuff for starters, although I confess I only half paid attention as I ran into Rich Craven, in town from Oxford, and caught up with a similar anal retentive music fan!

Carried on with the chat with Rich and his mate Rich May during the other 2 supports – inside for The Get-Outs, a noisy and formulaic but quite tuneful actually post-grunge nu-punk trio who at their best recalled “Copper Blue”-era Sugar; and outside during The Interpreteurs’ ska stylings. I don’t like ska. Simple as that, really.

Good company and music chat (plus Mr. Craven’s huge pizza!) had hastened the time along, so it was 10 to 11 when we re-entered the by-now crammed venue, and I popped down the busy front for Nudy Bronque’s arrival onstage at 11. The young trio burst into the yelping mutant garage rock of opener “Bottled Blonde”, vocalist Aidan already an angular, swaggering presence with a deep, resonant vocal style recalling Jarvis Cocker (not the only Pulp comparison in evidence, for me at least…), and the confidence of a natural frontman (which made it all more surprising when Dave Franklin later revealed Aidan wasn’t their original vocalist!).

Nudy Bronque’s sound is a melting pot of influences – dashes of the quirky, “His’n’Hers”-era Pulp, the ramshackly jangle of early Orange Juice or the dissonant cacophony of Fire Engines, even some of the Vaccines 50’s Buddy Holly-isms – but distilled into a unique, original and quintessentially English sound. “Crazy But I Love Him” was a reverb-soaked jangle-fest with a doo-wop rhythmic base, which melted impressively into a strident chorus noise-fest, then a touching rendition of the Velvet Underground’s comedown ballad “Sunday Morning” diffused the frantic mood very well. The set highlight came a couple of numbers later, with the tremendous, galloping “Peachy Keen”, the chorus collapsing into some deliciously discordant guitar noise. By this time the trio was augmented by an impromptu appearance from their EP producer, embellishing the sound with some keyboard colour, then picking up the bass while the normal bassist played some squeezebox. The final number “Space Travel 2013 By Phone” was a slow-burn into a squalling crescendo, allowing Aidan to indulge in some primal screaming. A great end to a swift half-hour, but the band were persuaded on for an unplanned encore of “What’s It Gonna Be?”, the terrace chant chorus seemingly acting as a metaphor for this young and very promising band.

Calls for further encores went unrequited (“we’ve not rehearsed any more songs!” the band offered as an excuse) as I said my farewells, taxi-ing Mr. May home and getting home myself about ¼ to 1, reflecting on Nudy Bronque’s performance. What’s it gonna be? I don’t honestly know, but at the moment all things are possible, with the right breaks. Either way it’ll be a strange and entertaining ride, and one I’m firmly planning to be on!