We arrived.  Late.  The support had played.  Friends said "You missed nothing".  The venue heaved.  Fans drank.  Fans shouted conversations over music.  A cartoon played on the screen.  The editor got on the bus home. His ticket lost.  The lights dimmed. The cartoon stopped.  The venue hushed.  Figures moved on stage.  People roared.  The lights went up.  A man in red and black (bad trousers)/a woman in white/guitars/drums/Mondrian backdrop.  Jack played the guitars.  Jack sang.  Meg drummed. Meg sang.  Fans danced. Fans applauded. Fans screamed.  Jack and Meg played songs from Elephant.  Seven Nation Army set the crowd alight.  In the Cold, Cold Night made boys dream.  Jack and Meg played songs from White Blood Cells.  Jack and Meg did not play Fell in Love with a Girl.  Jack and Meg played songs from De Stijl.  Death Letter live was magnificent.  As usual.  Jack and Meg played songs from White Stripes.  In medley form.  Very strange.  Jack sang Jolene.  Jack sang I don't know what to do with myself.  Fans laughed.  Jack is not a girl.  Do you see? Fans danced. Fans drank.  The gig ended.  Fans filed out.  More than I've ever seen pour out of the Academy. Happy.  Very happy. Mostly.  Weasel said "They were better in a small venue.".  I thought "Isn't everyone?  We no longer own them.  They belong to everyone now."  Jack and Meg are not "ours" any more.  But the White Stripes still rock.  Big time.  They are still special.  We are all powerless to resist.  For now.

Reviewed by Matthew H
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On stage in a packed Barfly, sporting Civil war jackets and backed by swirling images from two projection screens, stand Hope Of The States.  As vocalist Sam Herily’s guitar chimes, and the band’s opening instrumental builds, you get the feeling this is more the open plains of Dances With Wolves than the Monarch on a Wednesday night.  With Kevin Costner and his stupid tash no where to be seen, HOTS battle their way through a haunting set of apocalyptic songs that Thom Yorke would be proud to call his own. Their current single ‘Black Dollar Bills’ proves to be the highlight of the evening – a song with equal measures of Mercury Rev’s grace, and Radiohead’s ferocity. Throughout the even more explosive ‘Red, White and Blue’, during which the bass player seems to be using his guitar to gently bayonette the people in front, you begin to wonder whether the lads from Chichester were not raised on the banks of the Mississippi in 1776.

Casting flag waving and civil war references aside, HOTS deliver a powerful, focused performance. With five members and a violinist on stage, you’d expect their sound to be huge. Well…it is. Crafted guitar warbling, and stomping piano from Herily, form the basis of HOTS’ bludgeoning sound.  Whether their presentation of cultural collapse will be embraced by those outside of…um…Chichester, is another matter (most of the songs are five minutes plus, and in places seem to blend into each other), or whether their tunes, backed by images of children playing in a garden, will be dismissed as pretentious guff, will have to be seen. Nevertheless, this is a band who obviously know what they want, and are going after it with everything they’ve got. Heavy stuff.

Since The Strokes made their first trip to Britain in 2001 and kick-started the Garage Rock scene, many have said the fashion for wearing a school tie on stage and having smelly hair would soon die. On the performance of The Star Spangles tonight, it’s already dust and bones. The New York quartet’s last London gig, was apparently “populated with celebrities and London’s glacial cool”[1]. This shows that either “London’s glacial cool” are a bunch of knobheads or they were off their nut at the time – probably both. The Star Spangles’ brand of generic garage punk complete with ‘whoo-whoo’s’ in all the right places, fails to stir. From the outset, they present a run of ‘heard this one before’ tunes and pappy half-arsed swagger. New single ‘Stay Away From Me’ is a raggedy punk chant that whizzes into the next song with seemingly no change at all.  However, this is what we have come to expect when the phrases ‘New York’ and ‘Garage Rock’ are gelled together so easily – people who look like The Strokes, sound like The Strokes and have the same stains on their Converse. Obviously, if this is what you’re after, The Star Spangles may prove to be your second favourite band.

Inevitable comparisons aside, The Star Spangles still fail to inject the vitality that is essential for a fresh sound, especially after so many ‘NYC garage rock’ copycats have come and gone. This sort of music needs inherent attitude, balls and true style. The Star Spangles seem to have been too busy shortening their ties to realise they left their bollocks on the plane.

 Reviewed by Ross B
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If The Projects’ music conjures up a film, it would be experimental black and white, composed of different angles, dislocated sounds and alienated dialogue: icily cerebal, challenging more than entertaining. But, hold on, who says that challenging cannot be entertaining?  Sure, the sound may be a fractured landscape of broken rhythms and timings, icy/cool vocals, sometimes breaking out into keyboard led riff, juxtaposing experimentalism with melody.   But something interesting is going on here, and just when you think you got them sussed they….Well, it is a relief to have something this thoughtful when you can hardly pogo for all the formulaic garage-by-numbers bands around.  Entertainment (a single on Track and Field) is fairly representative of The Projects sound: a chant/call vocal almost like a radio 4 shipping forecast over a Joy Division backing and Tomorrow Never Knows-style drumming which then shifts into a melodic chorus.  It’s like three songs in one, which might be two too many for some.  Desperately grabbing for reference points I am reminded of the odd-pop of the Nightingales or Prag Vec, or the angular punk of Gang of Four, and on one song they sound like the Kinks meet Can.  They encore with most of the band playing on keyboards in what promises to build up into some hypnotic krautrock before petering out amidst grins.  A sense of fun beneath that cool exterior? Bemusing and entertaining by turns. 

Set list: Today/Yesterday; Entertainment; Nancy Garcia; Revolutions; Yeah Yeah Real Life; Ulysses; Runner Up; Iron Giant.

Reviewed by Kev O
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To immediately put The Stands into a box labelled “cosmic Scouse guitar bands” would be a disservice to a group who are reaching outside the current river of new bands flowing out of Liverpool.  Tonight’s show in front of a fairly sparse but eagerly attentive audience displayed a quality of songwriting and performance that is firmly rooted in your Roger McGuinn/Brian Wilson school of perfect harmony-laden melodies, yet delivered with the fresh-faced crisp vitality of an exhaling farmer standing on a massive hill.

Tune after tune revealed a band passionate about their craft, as well as their delivery. Yet there is a feeling that the excited derangement of fellow Bandwagon chums The Coral, will come to overshadow The Stands’ more plaintive style. Although vocalist Howie Payne’s command of pleasant melodies and jangly guitar lines is consistently spot on, the individual songs may not prove to turn many heads - although John Power is probably singing one of their tunes as we speak.

In fact this is the overriding feeling we are left with as The Stands leave the stage: a band who seem truly at home playing the songs they have so lovingly created, whilst still not quite reaching the energised abandon of their city mates.   Still, with rumours of a deal with Noel Gallagher’s ‘Sour Mash’ label abounding, and support slots with The Coral, The Bandits and Oasis under their belts, the future does look bright for The Stands. See…a review of a Liverpool guitar band, and I didn’t mention The La’s once.

Reviewed by Ross B
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Before diving headlong into this review, I apologise now for the fact that I have no recollection in what order the bands appeared in over the 3 days, with exception for the headliners; hence the reviews are in alphabetical order. Those of you out there in XP land who have had the (dis) pleasure of reading one of my festival reviews in the past will know that most of the time they are done through the haze of alcohol abuse. Well that’s my excuse anyway. Yes Paul, I should invest in a notebook, but you look like a complete chin-scratching ponce standing at the back of a venue with a biro in your hand, and this certainly wouldn’t have fitted into the spirit of this weekend.

Anyway, I digress. What’s Punkaid then? Over the last few years, it’s grown from a one-day event in a small London venue, to a 3-day festival at Stalag 123, sorry Pontins, Brixham. To be fair, it’s no worse a venue than ATP at Camber. The chalets aren’t that bad and it still beats the hell out of a tent in the middle of the Somme at Reading. The beer’s at a reasonable price and the Hall has a suitably sized stage. Also, the organisers spent a decent amount of money on a good PA and back line set-up that meant good sound and quick turn-a-round between bands (no more than 15 minutes between acts).

The idea is that all the bands give up their time for free to raise money for charity, so any cash raised through ticket sales and merchandise goes to good causes. Not many bands in this day and age would do that without some major press coverage and column inches to publicize the fact, and that in itself says a lot about the attitude of Punk bands.

On with the reviews.

The Anoraks – Proper garage rock and punk band, who were an ideal warm up for the bigger names to follow them. They’ve been on the pub circuit for years now, but there’s absolutely no chance of them breaking into the mainstream. Good performance none the less.

ATV – The Old Stagers who assisted in getting this venture off of the ground. I missed the middle of their set, though they started off ok. Action Time Vision is a hell of a good tune, but by the end of their 45 minutes, most of the audience had heard enough. This wasn’t a time for them to be experimental, but then what did we expect from one of Punks most avant-garde performers. Hummm.

Chelsea – Ah, one of the bands that everybody was dieing to see. Proper London Punk scene that hasn’t changed in over 25 years. Right To Work went down an absolute storm as did most of their set, though it was amusing to see that there’s still inner turmoil between the members of the band. Mistakes were greeted by scowls and abuse and when they couldn’t do a second encore, toys were close to being thrown out of the pram. Passionate.

The Damned – They Headlined the Saturday night and didn’t disappoint. Stick the Captain and Vanian on a stage, light blue touch paper and stand back. They played a mix of hits and seldom played album tracks that only aficionados would recognise (and everybody there knew them). From Plan 9 Channel 7 to New Rose, the whole set rocked as the largest crowd of the weekend lapped it up (sadly though no full version of Curtain Call). Virtually all the other bands came out to watch them, and I ended up pogo-ing with half of the Parkinsons who were having a whale of a time leading the crowd in a rousing chorus of “Captain is a wanker”. These guys are true Punk legends and never fail to impress, but even so got completely into the spirit of the weekend often seen watching and supporting the smaller bands. Brilliant.

Dead Kennedys – Sunday nights headline act, and deservedly so. Yep they’re old and don’t have Jello anymore, but you can’t take the spirit away from them. Every song a crowd pleaser, and played with passion as fast a humanly possible, (e.g. Nazi Punks Fuck Off start to finish about 60 seconds!). Proper slamming down the front just went to prove you can take a bunch of 30 something blokes, play them a real punk rock song and watch normally sane people go completely hat-stand. They are still a must see act. Marvellous.

Duel – London proto-punk synth-rock band. As they were first on the bill on the Sunday, I only managed to catch the end of their set, and to be honest I don’t think I missed much. It was a bit lightweight for this audience and did little to rouse much excitement in the sparse crowd. Ok I was suffering from a hangover obviously, but saying there’s more punk attitude in everything that Carter USM have done puts it into perspective. Dull.

Eddie and the Hot-Rods – Everybody was gagging for Canvey Island’s favourite gang. Shame they didn’t play! No idea why they pulled out but an all-together gutting moment. You could hear the collective sigh of disappointment in Torquay. Bugger!

Flamingo 50 – Unknown quantity from Liverpool, but if there is any justice in the world they won’t be for long. Blisteringly good 3 piece from the Ramones stable, with 2 girls on guitar and an excellent drumming bloke. From the opening power chords of their first song they laid down the gauntlet to all the old fogies on the bill to beat that! Legs akimbo, big air, thrashy power pop punk at it’s best. Bar far the best of the “small” bands on show the whole weekend, they deserve to be taken seriously as a real future prospect. If I was an A&R man I’d sign this lot tomorrow based solely on this single performance, full of energy, humour, fun and damn good tunes. When your early afternoon slot brings half of the UK Subs and The Damned out of the bar and down to the front to watch you, then you must be doing something right. My recommendation from this weekend – go see them if you get the opportunity. Cheeky.

Goldblade – Sorry, they were on late on Friday after I’d been drinking for 12 hours solidly, so by this stage I was finished and heading back to Chateau Monkey for a nightcap with my trusty assistant Ian stumbling along in my wake. Shame really, because the general consensus of opinion the next day were that they were good. More Beer Vicar?

The Groundhogs – Now, I had no idea who they were, though people were talking in hushed respectful tones about them before hand, almost reverential. The Godfathers of riffs by all accounts. Captain introduced them by saying how many of their guitar licks he’d stolen over the years, and just how surprised were we when 3 refugees from Woodstock ambled onto the stage with the air of hippies who had got lost on the way to a Greenpeace convention. Uh-oh, this is looking horrible, said my Becks soaked brain. I needn’t have been worried. Ok, it was proper rhythm and blues that at times bordered on self-indulgent jazz but it was played with gusto and real flair. Most of the audience got it (except for one moron who insisted of barging to the front to express his displeasure), and the musicianship was of the highest order. At one stage I looked around the audience to see at least 10 of the guitarists from other bands watching in awe at the fingers dancing across the fret-board of the front man’s instrument. As I stood there like the muso I am, The Parkinsons axe man was next to me grinning like a child in a sweet shop, nodding in appreciation of the manual dexterity on show. Groovy baby.

Itchy Tits All Girl Punk Show – The name is funny, but the band wasn’t. Poor band, with little to offer, in either looks or music. There have been plenty of bands that have tried to play power pop, and all do it better. I gave it 10 minutes before my promise to myself to stay off the booze until the 3^rd band of the day was broken. Gentlemen let us adjourn to the bar before we fall into a coma. Ordinary.

The Lillettes – Another unknown 5 piece girl band, who were very good indeed. Great rock and roll, with a singer with a great pair of lungs (and I don’t mean that in the non-p.c. way – pervert!) though the second guitarist was generally superfluous to proceedings. The guitarist had taken lessons from Angus Young, and on the whole pulled it off with spades. On any other festival they would have been higher up the bill easily, but despite their early slot still gave it 110%. Worth a look.

Los Paraliticos – I was warned that this lot were a bit thrash, so wasn’t particularly looking forwards to seeing them, but as their singer was one of the organisers and had put a lot of work into getting the event together I felt duty bound to at least give them my support. They started shonkily with a poor sub-metal song that tried my patience, but then confounded my preconceptions by playing a hyped up punk set of very entertaining tunes that would have got anybody interested in them. Probably one of the better sets of the weekend, it was a shame they didn’t get a larger audience to see them, but then the football was on the telly at the time. Entertaining.

Menace – Another of the highly tipped bands of the weekend, Menace were all that I expected. Intelligent punk (no, that’s not an oxymoron) they play without relying on easy power chord progressions or shouting to get their point across. They didn’t get my pulse racing but still did enough to keep me entertained. Solid.

John Otway and his Big Band – Headliners on the Friday, and by this stage I was tucked up in my scratcher back at Chimp Towers watching the ceiling spin. He’s an acquired taste at the best of times and missing him didn’t exactly bother me. Judging by the opinions of people the next day he was a disappointment anyway, so probably one of my better moves of the weekend (and there wasn’t many of them to be had). Zzzzzz.

Oi Polloi – They’ve never been my cup of hemlock, so I was in two minds whether to bother seeing them. When they went on I was in the bar talking to Jo Guest and Charlie Harper (friend of the star aren’t I) so I was in no hurry to get back into the hall anyway, so when one of my cohorts came in and said they were getting all political and burning pictures of various members of the ruling classes on stage I chose to stay where I was. My second good move of the weekend (and I think my last cos half an hour later I was drinking Becks snakebites). Mines a large one.

The Parkinsons – Ah, now this is what it’s all about. Proper lunacy played by maniacs with little concern of their own safety. I’ve reviewed them in the past and have said everything before, but they are still one of the most exciting acts on the circuit at the moment. Tip that hat at The Ramones and The Clash and mix in a large portion of Latino frenzy and you have an explosive cocktail of pure punk pleasure. Saying that they can play seems to matter little but they have tunes as well as attitude in abundance, and without trying are much cooler in my opinion than The Strokes stuffed into the ice box of Hotpoint fridge. If you haven’t seen them yet - do! Outstanding.

Penetration – I missed their last London shows, and have had to suffer various members of the SoundsXP staff continually telling me how much I missed out, so made a concerted effort to see them this time. Though it bugs me to admit it, the buggers were right.

The highlight of the weekend without a doubt, to say they were brilliant really doesn’t do them justice. Why a major label doesn’t sign them is absolutely beyond me, as they have more talent and ability than most of the current bands that we’re forced to listen to now days. Pauline is as charismatic a front woman as Debbie Harry, Courtney Love and Kim Deal (now that’s high praise from me) rolled into one, and arguably has a better voice than any of them. Ok, she is the focus of the band, but that doesn’t make the others just session musicians. They are tight and punchy, and because of her presence can concentrate on getting the sound perfect. Don’t Dictate could be the theme song of any generation and if there was just one record label sensible enough to stop searching for the next big thing and realise that it is sitting there right in front of them, Penetration could just become massive. Pity I can’t see it happening. Storming.

Red Letter Day – Oh dear. Take 2 middle aged fellas who wished they’d put a band together in1977, and throw in 2 decent guitarists (who I wouldn’t be surprised if they were their sons), and you have an act that is as disturbing as it sounds. If you heard them recorded you’d probably say they weren’t bad, but to see them live is to imagine your Dad trying to do a bad drunken Pistols impression at a karaoke night down the pub. I’d be embarrassed trying to sing songs about youth rebellion at my age, so this fella must have nuts as big as bowling balls to get up on stage and try to pull it off. His high kicks were neither high, nor kicks and it was only a matter of time before he tore his hamstring trying to pull one off. Sad.

Spitroast – Having met two of this four-piece girl band during my morning swim on Saturday morning (very therapeutic), I was looking forwards to seeing them early on the Sunday bill. They were such nice girls it came a bit of a surprise to find a band who’s major influence was obviously The Exploited, and who’s on stage vocabulary consisted of little more then 4 letter words. They could have got away with it too if they’d been good and ignored politics, but unfortunately they were frankly poor and mouthy about things they didn’t really know about. Forget the social conscience girls, cos nobody’s going to take it seriously. Shame because they really looked good and were obviously very serious about what they were doing. Talking to them afterwards (and they will probably hate me for saying this) they really were such sweet girls, and I found out that this was only their fourth gig, so it can only be a good experience playing in this company, but on this showing they need more rehearsals and gigs if they have any plans to do this for a living. Shonky.

Teasing Lulu – They opened the festival on Friday and were terrified for the first 15 minutes. Once they got over the stage fright and actually started enjoying themselves, they weren’t half bad at all. Pop punk in a girly Sum 41 (better than it sounds) sort of way they do have potential given experience. It was obvious that though they could all play well enough though they lacked the stagecraft to fully pull it off. In a years time they could be very exciting. Not bad.

Toxic Slut – When the Warriors pulled out on Sunday, they “volunteered” to play for the second time in the weekend. Heavy with hangovers and lack of sleep they made more mistakes than a dyslexic doing a cryptic crossword, but still got away with it due to charm and humour. On Saturday afternoon they were far better musically, and were as entertaining an act as any on show over the 3 days playing fun punk songs about partying and enjoying themselves. With a fantastically charismatic front girl they could just be what the music industry is looking for at the moment with a handful of catchy tunes that I was still whistling on the train home on Monday. Fun.

TV Smith – The Adverts front man played an acoustic set on his own which had the audience enraptured for its entirety. He went on with a set-list, but two songs in it turned into a request session, playing anything from his repertoire that the audience called for, to the point that he ran out of time before playing Gary Gilmore’s Eyes. The crowd didn’t mind because they’d seen a great set played by a man who was clearly enjoying himself and on top of his game. It was excellent and would highly recommend seeing him if he’s playing near you. Glorious.

UK Subs – The man’s a legend. No more no less. When he arrived on Friday afternoon with two carrier bags of belongings and a fishing rod, he look dishevelled. When he was in the bar supping a shandy, he looked as old as his years. When he was on stage, he was like a twenty-year-old kid with the world at his feet. Make no mistake, Charlie Harper is an absolute national treasure, and deserves all the respect that he gets from his peers. Nobody does it like Charlie, and it’s unlikely than anybody ever will again. 200+ gigs a year and he still gets on stage like it’s his first with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face. He epitomises everything that being punk is all about, doing stuff on his terms with nobody telling him what he can and can’t do. A set of classic punk songs from the 24 album back catalogue of a band that kept the genre alive during the dark years.  This can’t go on forever, so if you get the chance to see a genius at work – take it. Legendary!

The Vibrators – I’ve seen these so many times, that it’s hard to get really excited about them again, but on this occasion they were on top form. It was the usual set of songs they always do, but they upped their game for the benefit of a vociferous crowd. Baby Baby (which let’s be honest is a pure pop song) had everybody singing along a top of their voice in a massive drunken chorus. When they finished (much too quickly in my opinion) there was nothing else on the Friday night bill that was going to top them (hence Goldblade and Otway being blanked by me). Maybe it was the booze in my system, but I’d like to remember them as just being terrific. Class.

The Warriors – For 5 minutes on Sunday morning I was in The Warriors. I got the call at 10am informing me that their guitarist hadn’t turned up, and asking me if I’d fill in. Now in my weakened state I almost agreed to do it, then Mister Reality came calling at my door and battered me round the head with a rolled up newspaper until I saw sense. “You don’t know their songs, you don’t have your own guitar with you, you’ve got 5 hours to learn a 45 minute set, and you’ve got the sort of hangover that’s normally reserved for recently a lobotomised mental case” he said. I had to admit he had a point. Common sense prevailed and I turned down the gig. It disappointed at lot of punters but was for the best, for the band, the audience and me. Phew!

4 Foot Fingers – I’d heard of them but had no idea what they were like. It was pop punk bordering on nu-metal at times, and I’m sure they’ll appeal to teenagers with a penchant for skateboards and alco-pops, but weren’t exactly my cup of tea though they were more than capable musicians. They’ll probably be massive, but that doesn’t mean they deserve to be. Youthful.

There were other bands (I think), but my addled brain can’t recollect them now (if you were one of them please e-mail me and try to jog my memory!). All told, it was a great weekend full of classic bands doing what they do best, tucked alongside complete unknown gems. Everybody there completely enjoyed themselves and the music, and all the bands were approachable and chatty which is rare these days. It was no place for superstar attitudes or cockiness, just for people who love music, bands and letting their hair down for 3 days of acting silly, drinking too much and reminiscing about the good old days. Never was there a hint of trouble from any of the burly drunken crowd, and when somebody fell down in the mosh pit, somebody instantly picked them up. When was slamming ever this civilized without being diluted? It’s ATP with Mohicans, Reading without nu-metal and pompousness, Glastonbury without the nutters, V without the corporate sell out. It was Punkaid and the fact that it made money for charity was a bonus. It was a fun weekend, and I’m definitely doing it next year. Book your tickets tomorrow folks, and take a trip back down memory lane to a time when music was a simple thing that gave you simple pleasure. I’m not going to beg, but if you miss this sort of event, you are missing something very special, and dare I say it, something very British in a good way if you know what I mean. If ringing ears and potential liver damage doesn’t bother you, I guarantee you’ll have the time of your life.

Reviewed by Micky K
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There’s nowt like good preparation for doing a live review, and being asked to do it by your editor as the band walk onstage is nowt like good preparation! Thank heavens it’s only Bearsuit then – just insert the words ‘ramshackle’, ‘shouting’ and ‘shambling’ in as you go along and you can’t go far wrong, can you?

Well, not to start with certainly. The opening salvo of The Weight Of It and Return Of Rotor from their new EP, sandwiched either side of old single Drink Ink conform to everything people either love or hate about Bearsuit. They appear to be playing at least two separate tunes at once, as if someone mixed up the various members’ set-lists for a laugh, and Lisa is shrieking. A lot. There’s not even an amusing set of matching outfits, like the cowboys and Indians gear they had the last time I saw them, to sway the doubters.

But then along come the revelations. Firstly, a cracking run through Hey Charlie, Hey Chuck to remind us what we fell for in the first place, and then the last of the new EP tracks. Disembowel The Demonkind, despite the cumbersome name is a thing of great beauty. Lisa plays accordian and sings, yes really sings, properly and, along with the flute and gentle melody, it grows into a close relative of The Delgados’ Pull The Wires From The Wall.

The closing song, written to celebrate the recent marriage of drummer Matt and cornet-player Cerian, follows a similar path through to a lovely a cappella ending between Iain and Lisa. Finally, the band are starting to realise that there’s more to it than simply making an endearing racket and have found a new inner maturity to blossom into something potentially greater. Bearsuits you sir!

Reviewed by James S
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Liverpool’s Zombina and the Skeletones are merely the cherry on this Strange Fruit cake however. The first slice of the action comes from Brighton’s My Private Life. If the name is reminiscent of the once marvellous My Life Story then that’s not all. Okay, there are only six of them but the enjoyably slightly overblown histrionics are present and correct in the dandyish singer with a pair of handcuffs dangling from his (limp) wrist. Combining with a Bowie-esque voice, archly clever lyrics and a backing of keyboards, flute, violin, guitar and drums, their lives may not stay private for long.

Next up, The Electric Shocks by their own admission are here to ‘camp it down’ in comparison. They play a mix of hard-rock, garage-rock and punk-rock. With the emphasis on rock. The hair is unironically dodgy and the tunes unappetisingly stodgy. They know their way around a riff or two but it’s just not enough to go beyond the pub circuit.

And so back to Zombina. Another rule of picking your moniker is living up to it. No worries here then ‘cos they do exactly what it says on the tin. Zombina herself (let’s not spoil the fun with real names) comes across like Karen O if she’d followed the Model T Ford motto of ‘any colour as long as it’s black’ and the backing band are indeed dressed as skeletons. Song titles like The Kids R All Dead, Grave and Beyond and Frankenlady may suggest that we’re slipping into the realms of novelty concept hell but hold your judgemental horses a minute.

Yes, there’s a theme going here but their unique brand of bubblegum-garage-punk-goth-disco-rock is done with more style, panache and wit than a million other bands. Think of the Ramones, Joan Jett and, whisper it, early Bis, where hooks and choruses arrive as regularly as the Sars virus at a Chinese airport. When Christina mutates into a J-Lo medley of My Love Don’t Cost A Thing and Jenny From The Block it’s a moment to savour, as is the a cappella Prom Night, with the best barbershop harmonies since Homer hit the big time in The Simpsons.

Okay, so it doesn’t bode well for a six-album career but since when did that become the prerogative for judging a new band’s greatness? Enjoy them now, before some miserable music hack decides to savage them, because they’re undead dead good.

Reviewed by James S
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