Delegates' Sound Of Thunder

There is a barely forgivable number of puns in one paragraph of this review, but then, start a silly band and you get a silly review, silly.

THE DEPUTEES/ THE VICARS OF TWIDDLY/ THE HALCYONS – Klub Kakofanney, The Wheatsheaf, 5/12/08

“Crisis? What crisis?” Despite a spate of small venue closures, and the recent ruling that all British journalism must contain the phrase “credit crunch” every hundred words, The Wheatsheaf is crammed before nine o’clock. Such is the power of Klub Kak, who effortlessly fill venues with a startling mixture of trendies and hairies, of preening youths and hoary old men, despite the fact their lineups look like they were worked out on the back of a beermat the night before. If you don’t love the Klub, you’ve either not experienced it, or you’re hollow inside.

he Halcyons play two sorts of tune, either ballsy torch songs smothered in fruity organ and vox humana keyboards as heard through a giant filter stamped “1987”, or excellent squelchy dance rock numbers, that could easily be the theme to some lost Logan’s Run spin off mini-series. It’s a hugely promising set, and our only criticism is that they can come off as a clinical take on day-glo hedonism, like the bands in the bar on Buffy; with a little polishing they could produce an insistent but spacious muso-pop eeriness, like the bands in the bar on Twin Peaks. But with more silly synth noises, natch.

As most enlightened sociologists and historians have observed, all the major movements in rock history can be reduced to the desire to dress up funny, which is where The Vicars Of Twiddly score highly, decked in a variety of elaborate Catholic vestments. They also rack up points for slapping out rocking swamp surf - if that’s not an aqueous paradox - somewhere between Dick Dale and The Cramps, which could soundtrack a lost ecclesiastical Tarantino flick (Pulpit Fiction, anyone?). Of course, every single riff and trick is shamelessly nicked, but no mater how many unoriginal sins The Vicars commit, they’re great fun, and why pontificate when we can dance like goons?

The Deputees struggle to follow the idiosyncratic supports, and their vivacious guitar pop sounds too straightforward, even when the co-opt a B-52s bounce. Sadly, the vocals let the team down too, alternating between a distended groan and the sound of Eddie Izzard’s “small yappy type dog”. This is a pity, as the songs themselves are well-turned and thoughtful, evinced by a Flying Burrito Bros cover, but tonight the quality compositions get lost in a slightly flaccid performance: it’s The Vicars Of Twiddly in reverse.