Saturday 20^th December at the Metro, Oxford Street

Bands: Kabeedies, Once A Thief, Kids Love Lies, Kinkane

Merry Winter Festival! Some people, particularly critics and writers of topical stuff, will look to add class and integrity to their work by largely ignoring the festive season, save for a couple of subtle hints as a 'wink' to the more in-tune reader. Here's hoping Yule feel the same about this piece.

The jollirific stuffing-and-sprout-fest that is Christmas is edging near its bloated and underwhelming zenith. Placing the fact it's a product of the Romanisation of Christianity and is about as far away as you can get on a calendar to Jesus' July birth date aside, it's a time of giving, receiving, eating, and all other manner of Clapham Common innuendo. It's also a time for music and merriment, and if you're a wicked-cool indie fanster (this season's word du jour for 'fan'), the only thing to satisfy your festive musical cravings is Club COG's nights of top indie talent. (Obviously for merriment you'd settle for nothing less than a crack rock the size of a golf ball.)

Things pranced-on-the-stage off with the mighty Kinkane, a band who have been so successful they've been signed for nearly four years apparently. What do you mean you've never heard of them? They're Kinkane dammit! KINKANE!! No, me neither - and this despite them having just supported the Who at the O2 - which makes you question the ability of their label, as easy mockery aside, they're strangely good.

Their contrived songs are unique. Their standard chord structures are filled with Radio 1 riffs and lyrics a 17-year-old wouldn't bother to finger on a condensed mirror, and yet they're oddly compelling. It's probably because they've out-mainstreamed the mainstream acts. Every mainstream act has an edge - a musical hook, be it the voice of the singer, particular guitar/piano styles, etc. Kinkane's edge is that they have no individual characteristics at all.

Every song sounds like it could be stolen from Franz Ferdinand or Kaiser Chiefs, but more so the dull American bands like Phantom Planet, 3 Doors Down or even Matchbox 20. There's some U2 and Crowded House in there as well, but their true musical next-of-kins are another band that love standard American rock, but as cultural outsiders never manage to get it right, and that's Aussie favourites Powderfinger.

All this sounds distinctly negative, but they seem to do the most they can with these characteristics. They're catchy, and they're tight. Their sound has been honed perfectly into little pop records that could be listened to by anyone. It's inoffensive, it's hook-laden, and it showcases proficient musicianship. The singer's voice is as welcome in a pop unit-shifter for the kids as it is in an underground art-house composition, and their entire image and style seems instantly marketable.

But in the end it's not real music. There seems to be a distinct lack of indulgence and artistic freedom. It's as if the cast of High School Musical were told to 'rock it out'. They've created songs Robbie Williams could use. A professional set by a band who know how to perform, but like dating a 14 year old girl when you're 18, there's a part of you that just feels wrong.

So it was time to correct things with Kids Love Lies, a punky punk band from punkerton, playing indie songs except all, like, rebellious and stuff. The female lead's vocal styling and stage persona is the typical modern punk clusterfuck of PJ Harvey, Kathleen Hanna, Debbie Harry and a whole bunch of other 'wild girl' luminary influences. The music is punchy, lively punk with a nice undertone of progressive lead guitar that is lost in the noise of the live performance. The only problem with them is that their sound has been done a thousand times before.

Now, this happens quite often in music. The best way to overcome this is to write songs of tremendous quality. Unfortunately Kids Love Lies don't get above the slightly good. And if it's slightly good then there are better alternatives to listen to, such as the icons mentioned above. Kids Love Lies offer nothing different to the norm except the occasional below par 'story telling' lyrics (like in 'Morning After', which makes not a single interesting observation in more than four minutes). They also seem to forget what they're playing. The nature of punk music is simple and repetitive. That's why most of the best punk songs are around two minutes (one of Bikini Kill's finest clocks in at under 40 seconds). To stretch out a two minute punk track to three and a half minutes by repeating the chorus an extra ten times is bordering on the suicidal.

Their punk songs are about as edgy as having an extra profiterole for dessert, but when they play calmer tracks like 'Under the Bed' and 'Chimera' they show a much more promising side to them - similar to Pretty Girls Make Graves in tunefulness and head-nod-ability. Their set was tiring, but if they develop their more considered side, they really could be quite special.

On to a band who are far closer to reaching those levels. Club COG favourites Once A Thief played the role of main support with a roster of new tracks, incorporating even hookier riffs and standout solos than before. More than ever, they best represent the modern London sound, with opener 'Slow It Down' being the archetypal punk-ska-with-a-hint-of-techno track – think every new indie band that's born out of that sound – Eight Legs, the Foxes, the Fullertons, etc - only actually good.

The two big songs 'Satellites' and 'Sirens' are already classics in COG regulars' minds. The latter in particular still has the ability to burn into the grey matter until all you want is that screaming guitar effect to build up in your head ad infinitum. But the more exciting prospects were the new additions, which showed a marked development in Once A Thief's sound, being in that they were uniformly superb, with the mellow 'Spare Keys' a particular highlight. There was more singing, higher tones, an accomplished solo here and there, and of course all of this anchored with a superb level of drumming by the still amusingly named Hitman. The Vested One (he doesn't understand sleeves) proceeded to bash away as if he was being paid serious money to destroy a cymbal with a stick. William Bowerman aside, it's hard to think of a better drummer in the scene today, and one more musically in-line with the band they're playing for.

They finished their set with yet another exemplary new track 'Ice Cream Headache', that showed their back catalogue has not only increased in size but also in quality. Another top notch performance.

They made way for the headliners – a bunch of rural kids who, despite sporting trendy haircuts and tight-fitting garments, still appeared to smell of cider and horse manure. They were the Kabeedies, and they played straight indie pop with driving two-tone. They're a standard four piece with the female lead singer being afforded constant backing vocals from the guitar and bass players.

Their lyrics sometimes shine with wit and zeal, sometimes offend with downright naivety, but it's that naivety which makes them an excellent band to see live. They are pure energy and fun, have great chemistry on stage, and the little vocalist makes up for her average voice by jumping around like a child having been force-fed speed, sherbet and malic acid (I was acquitted). Their songs all contained sing-along choruses with overlapping vocals. 'Lovers Ought To' and 'King Canute' are particular highlights in a set fraught with liveliness and infectious, wide-eyed optimism.

If a tad unoriginal in some areas, they didn't possess any truly bad songs. It's as if they put all their focus on making sure every chorus is so catchy it's wrong. Add the fact they make the cast of Lazy Town seem haggard and listless, and they could be onto a winning formula. After all, the indie kids would love a fun option to turn to when they've had a philosophical work-out by the poignant and contemplative Vampire Weekend.

As they finished the set as lively as they started, a feeling descended upon the crowd - a feeling of warmth, love for their fellow man, and togetherness. It even touched - nay engulfed - the icy, brutish heart of yours truly. This feeling – maybe even a spirit – changed my outlook to one of seasonal cheer and giving. And I gave a lot. It's just a shame those alleyway tramps didn't like to receive. Nothing a screwdriver to the eye couldn't fix though (thrown out due to lack of evidence). Until next time,

Muhammad Odeh

Club Night Review

Saturday 6^th December at the Metro, Oxford Street

Bands: The Outside Royalty, The Ruling Class, The Molotovs, I Have A Table

Words are important. It's true, especially in titles. I don't think 'War of the Worlds' would've been nearly as popular a film if it was called 'Conflict of the Tiny Specks of Dust (When You Think About it in the Context of the Solar System, Let Alone the Whole Bloody Galaxy)'. People often ask me* about life on other planets. Who cares? If they're out to kill us then we'd rather not find out, and if they're out to make peace we'll probably kill them because humans – not because of race, religion or political dogma, but just because we're humans - are a bunch of war-mongering bastards, and I'd rather not have America execute a regime change on another planet because we've had plenty of it in this one thank you very much**. One thing we've not had enough of on this watery little rock is excellent live music in a central London location. And if aliens were indeed smart, peace loving types, they'd realise that the best time for this live music is on the first and third Saturdays of each month - of a solar-based calendar decreed by some 16^th century Pope.

On this particular evening things kicked off with the popular I Have A Table, a blues-pop band rocking straight out of the Bo Diddley for Modern Indie Kids Academy. At least, that was how their opener sounded. They're a pick'n'mix of a band; at times captivating, at times contrived and dull to the point of Chris Moyles.

I Have A Table seem to suffer from the same frustrating symptoms as most other modern young bands – this need to restrict all their songs to a two-tone influenced, three minute pseudo punk track mixed in with acoustic guitars (if you want to make it sound 'earthy' and 'real'), or keyboard (if you want to make it 'retro eighties' or 'kooky and techno'). It's the new boy band harmonic singing. It's the new hip-hop track about how much money the rapper's got. It's the new torn jeans, big haired stadium rocker crescendo. It's the new shit – the standard, sub-par pile of pants-poo that makes you immediately think 'heard it before, what else is on'. Although to be fair it's not like I Have A Table are restricting their songs; it seems as if that's honestly all they could come up with.

It could be their lack of breadth of musical knowledge, their occasionally shoddy musicianship, or the lead singer's weak vocals – all attributable to their youth – but I Have A Table's flimsy song structures and apparent desire to make everything as radio-friendly as possible are colossal negatives.

But they do have positives. They can, on the odd occasion, veer from the standard indie ska-influenced stuff, and this is when they're not bad at all – in fact quite listenable. A major plus is when the guitarist is let loose to provide a blues solo, which manages to plaster up a lot of their cracks. Unfortunately that is too rare an event. These flashes adduce a possibility of future development into a consistently pleasing band, but it's a question of if as well as when.

Luckily what followed them were the Molotovs. On the outset they appeared to be the usual five piece with guitars, keys and a saxophone as the 'odd but cool' instrument. They sported indie scenester clothing and hair and emaciation. But when they played they were different. Nobody knows who told these young 'uns to keep all modern indie as simple and catchy as possible, but it's not a great idea. You'll get a hundred poor bands to every good one. It's more difficult to shine. It's more difficult to create atmosphere. But when it's done right it's cheap to record, instantly marketable music. Have we happened upon a conspiracy theory per chance?

If so, the Molotovs would be one of the suspicious success stories. A far more consistent proposition than I Have A Table, they play thoughtful indie with full, accomplished use of the keys and (as predicted, occasional) sax. Starting the set off quite badly with nondescript 'lively' alternative blandness from the 'How to be the Fratellis' guide, they gradually improved song by song - at each turn becoming more soulful, soaring and mellow. They developed right before the crowd's eyes from the spotty, fat yet somehow flat-chested minger people used to flick bogeys at into a smooth-skinned, curvaceous, buxom enchantress you'd drink a pint of mucous for. Similar to Starsailor but with some Arcade Fire thrown in, they're both central in the indie frame and a fringe group who could easily attain success through gaining a hardcore cult fan base.  Terrific stuff.

When they finished it was time for the Ruling Class, a band with significantly older influences than most contemporary indie groups. Even their image harked back to the old days of Suede and Oasis. The Ruling Class are a Brit Pop band – not an indie band. They proffer alternative music with a slower pace, less keys and more tuneful chord structures than the bands of today, and they're fresher and more original because of it.

Their vocalist sounds very much like his friend Tim Burgess off the Charlatans, with perhaps some Longpigs-style floating warbles thrown in, and their influences in general appear to be Stone Roses, Suede and Ride rather than Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand and the Killers. Theirs is a very retro sound, but all of it to a good degree of quality. They'd fool a number of people in their late 20's as a hidden Brit Pop gem that timed their emergence towards the end of that particular phase's popularity and were therefore buried under acts like Prodigy, Chemical Brothers and that particular dance scene.

Every song seems like a blast from the near-past, but rather than sounding like desperate hangers-on to an outdated sound, they showcase the reasons why that era of British indie music was so much more exciting and respected than the synth-based, homogenised tat that makes up most of the acts today. It's hardly surprising the NME clings on every small incident of the Arctic Monkey's daily lives – the fact they're one of the very few talented bands currently in the mainstream only highlights the problems the scene is in. Perhaps the accomplished and surprisingly atmospheric Ruling Class can provide an alternative, and revive what Suede started more than 16 years ago. An excellent set by an excellent band.

But they weren't even the best band of the night. The headliners took that crown about as easily as it is to trick a kid with learning disabilities that her parents really are going to kill her by putting lice in her hair and so she should shave her head with this sharp non-safety razor so the evil robot lice don't take hold – which from my experience is pretty easy. The Outside Royalty had six people. Their lead singer played guitar. They had a violinist, and a cellist who switched to piano duties. They had organ-style keys, as well as the usual compliment of bass and drums. They were quirky, like the lovechild of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and Arcade Fire that's been raised by a Beach Boy who made it listen to Talking Heads and Bowie. They have a singer-songwriter feel to their material, only louder, less self-indulgent, and effortless to listen to. The use of violin and cello was truly excellent throughout their extraordinary set.

They were surprising at times, adding 70s funk and punk references to toe-tapping, hook-laden compositions. There's a little tongue-in-cheek Electric Six style dance to them as well. They already have some future classics in their magnificent repertoire. Songs like 'Voice Beneath the Rubble' and 'A Lightbulb Turning Off' put almost anything on MTV to shame.

They were truly outstanding, and capped off another notable night for Club COG. I'm off to declare myself Pope so I can decree stuff too. I'm going to base my calendars on gratuitous photos of Kylie's arse. That's well-noted Aussie chef Kylie Kwang. Even with a Holy sign of approval, it won't sell well. Until next time,

Muhammad Odeh

*-Ok, nobody talks to me. But I'd like people to ask me stuff. Go on. Humour me. E-mail your cosmic queries to dave@davebensonphillips.com.

**- 2005 called, wants its satire back***.

***- 1999 called, wants its 'blah called, wants its blah blah' joke format back****.

****- see ***.

Saturday 15^th November at the Metro, Oxford Street

Bands: Let's Wrestle, The Late Greats, Artefacts for Space Travel, Scholars

Y'know, dysentery is a funny thing. Especially if an elderly gentleman who's just sat next to you on the bus is complaining about it to his care worker, who smiles sardonically and sits on the opposite side. What would you do? Moving away from the care worker's expectant stare would be rude and obvious, especially as all the other seats are taken. On the other hand, there's a probability, nay a likelihood, of liquid pooage seeping into your Batman boxers. It's a quandary and no mistake.

The Perfect British Gentleman's Guide to Manners states that the best course of action is to employ the famous stiff upper-lip. 'Grin and bear it' is the attitude that's seen us Brits through World War 1, World War 2, and the split of Busted. As the smell of pungent cauliflower dipped in sewage seers your nostril hairs and Robin's yellow cloak becomes a cloudy orange, a way of taking your mind off things is to think of the finest emerging musical talent in the land performing in an intimate setting in the centre of London at convenient times, preferably the first and third Saturdays of the month.

Like Club COG for example, which hosted yet another night of music and merriment the Saturday just gone. The first band were the colour-coordinated London foursome Scholars, who followed a lively start with more of the same for their entire set. They played catchy, simple, stop-start indie pop with a refreshing hardcore-punk slant.

Sometimes it takes two ugly people to make a beautiful child, if my experience of working in the baby market is anything to go by. So don't shriek and vomit on your keyboard when I say they're like 36 Crazy Fists meets the Wombats. Their Blink-182 (again, Scholars are good) sensibilities are actually detrimental in showcasing their high-quality musicianship, particularly the drumming which was superb throughout. Yet again it's a tale of two bands as they're more like Sparta when live and more like a grown-up McFly on their myspace recordings. Nonetheless they had a good set and generated an exciting atmosphere for the next band to build on.

Which Artefacts for Space Travel did. Sort of. The three piece offered noise and a high-pitched voice, which, like love and rape, don't often go together. They were interesting and certainly better than the huge number of synth-based techno-pop clones out there, but the repetitive nature of their songs hurt them. They're competent musicians, but for the louder half of the songs they appeared to be creating (or at least attempting to) a British indie version of Queens of the Stone Age. They had the QOTSA hooky simple riffs repeated ad nauseam to emotive vocals, but fell a couple of steps short.

The reason QOTSA works is because of the charisma of Josh Homme, which AST's lead singer, although not bad by any means, didn't possess. Also, the simple lead guitar for QOTSA played cleverly off the simple rhythm guitar, so the intelligence and complexity is there, but more in the arrangement rather than the musicianship. Being one guitar too short, AST didn't have hidden complexity. This was always going to be a problem. Their more psychedelic songs fared better, but not as good as their effects-enhanced recordings on myspace. Having said this, they're not bad on the whole and if dreadful acts like Vampire Weekend can make it then so can they.

But it's not likely they'll make it ahead of the Late Greats. COG favourites and main support for the night, the Late Greats are a proper indie band, with classic genre-defining riffs, quality songcraft, and a level of musicianship which made the previous bands look like a bunch of window lickers picking up instruments for the first time as part of a mental hospital outreach programme.

They bore two vocalists and played energetic yet tuneful indie songs laced with subtle humour, powerful drumming and a weightiness that comes with unfailing quality. They're quirky yet radio-friendly, varied yet consistent, and have a back catalogue of high-calibre tracks that will have considerable cache in today's market but also wouldn't fall out of peoples' collective conscience after five minutes, unlike so many acts today.

Their Pixies-inspired vocal delivery on tracks like 'Gareth' and 'He's Not It' play well off Madness-style riffs and Talking Heads mannerisms. And what they also have is their ace-in-the-hole, the simply fantastic single 'Destroy My Brain', a song, much like AIDS, that's infectious and looking to spread like wildfire amongst the 16-35s. It's a tremendous example of modern indie at its best, and a song any current favourite of NME would kill to have in their arsenal. Live, they play it with real venom, and used it to finish off a tremendous set that will see them invited back to Club COG again and again.

 And so it was the fast and vibrant threesome Let's Wrestle that headlined the evening. The drummer was vested and dog-tagged, the bass player Russell Brand-ed, and the lead singer/guitarist looking like, well, if Jack Black had some kind of palsy. Cerebral? You decide.

The difference between Let's Wrestle and Artefacts for Space Travel is that their brand of simple, loud music is based on the kind of hooks that would captivate a crowd even without a rough, loud guitar. They're an indie band with big speakers who sound like a consistent Eight Legs or a poor man's Art Brut. Although the grunge-style dirty guitar got a little tiring, the bass player was very good indeed, dominating their sound with intelligent and accomplished play in every track.

The lead singer's voice was forgetfully average, and sometimes very poor when singing emotively, and there's an element of 'too simple to last' about them which meant the shadow of the Late Greats loomed large well into their set, but they had the aura of a band comfortable on stage, comfortable with their development, and certain in the knowledge of where they're going. Songs like 'I Won't Lie to You' got a terrific reaction from the large crowd of their fans, and it was clear by the end of the evening that they made an impact. They rounded up another successful evening for Club COG, and one that was achieved without blood pressure tablets, cod liver oil, arthritis creams, incontinence underwear and false teeth. Hear that granddad? I'm off to mix laxative into his soup. Until next time,

Muhammad Odeh

Saturday 1st November at the Metro, Oxford Street

Bands: The Old Romantic Killer Band, The Gadsdens, Kaiko, Stand Down

'Let meeeeeeeeeeee entertain you! Let meeeeeeeeee entertain you!' Yeah! Woo! That was a great track from yesteryear. You know, some people didn't like that all-time classic. They said Robbie Williams was a talentless buffoon that appealed to middle-class girls who didn't know anything about music but thought he was a dishy bad boy. What about Alexander Pichushkin? The 'Chessboard Killer' murdered 61 people, only 3 away from his 64 target (the same number as that of squares on a chessboard). He's a real bad boy, and Russia's main psychiatric clinic called him 'irrecoverable'. Don't know what that means, but it sure sounds dishy to me.

Of course, this is not the first time a large number of people get things wrong. Why only on the Saturday just gone, Check Out Gigs hosted yet another tremendous night of top indie music, including two of the very best bands in the country. Sure the large crowd was busy and boisterous, but where was the prime time national news bulletin? Where was the live feed to 160+ countries? And what of the clamber for tickets, with mothers selling babies just for the opportunity to stand next to a person who was bidding for one?

The fantastic night started off rather quietly with the loud and contrived Stand Down. Sounds like an original name doesn't it? Try searching for them on myspace. The simple three piece had a garage-punk sound inspired by the obvious garage-punk bands that come to mind – your Green Days and your Blink 182s were mixed in with older, better sources of inspiration like Nirvana and perhaps early Silverchair, despite blinkered comparisons with Biffy Clyro and frankly hilarious claims of Sigur Ros as influences . They feel like they belong in a small nothing town in middle America, filled with frustrated, disaffected teens who feel they have to make a racket in order to fill their lives' tedium. I apologise, but it's a cliché review for a cliché band.

And while their cause is questionable it would've been helped greatly if they had something to say, or even someone to say it. As it is, their vocalist, whilst possessing the singing style of his punk heroes and the attributes in their recorded work of a 15-year-old Daniel Johns, lacked the voice or vitriol to supply the fire their songs needed to truly succeed.

And yet despite this, the catchiness of every one of their hook-laden tracks made them listenable and even likeable. They obviously need to tighten up, and some of their lyrics are downright awful, but their riffs offer fans of original grunge and punk acts a chance at nostalgia. There's a large market for this back-to-basics radio-friendly rock, especially in the States, and while it's a well-served genre, there's a space for Stand Down, providing they improve.

Business picked up with the quieter Kaiko, another band you'd be loathed to search for by name, but a band that stuck out in all the wrong and right ways. The foursome dressed like Razorlight without a clothing budget and started off with a song that sounded like a million other indie pop bands' naff b-sides, but as they played a tic formed in your ear, a tic you soon realised was the lead singer's voice. His Thom Yorke-with-a-hint-of-Joseph Arthur impersonation gave them an air of importance their subsequent songs justified. Their improvement was quite stark as they got into the meat of their set, displaying good song structures, pleasant plinky melodies and a certain amount of restraint in order to retain a contemplative, subdued sound projected with personality. They were very good, with songs like 'Don't Dream' the type of spirited, beautiful stuff many contemporaries could only dream of equalling. Like Tigers the Talked, Kaiko maintained this atmospheric quality even when they upped the tempo, and grew in stature as the night went on to provide a memorable performance.

But nothing imprints on the grey cells more than hearing the Gadsdens for the first time. The main supports came on and proceeded to gently build the house the Old Romantics later tore down. The Gadsdens are a four piece band proffering perfect indie pop. No one does it better, not fellow up-and-comers Hamfatter or the Ryes, not top-selling US acts like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah or Death Cab for Cutie, and certainly not current media darlings (dear God) the Wombats or (seriously, what the fuck?) Scouting for Girls. Their incredibly catchy piano excites, their perfect compliments of guitar and drums please greatly, and the vocals take the breath away. Jody Gadsden's voice is a star in itself, particularly on the more melancholy yet uplifting tracks like 'Heartbreaker' and the outstanding cover of Bronski Beat's 'Small Town Boy'. Elsewhere, songs like 'To Love You' and 'Sailor Song' are instant classics.

To compare them with other piano acts like Keane or Coldplay would be a crime. The Gadsdens have a more soulful, classical sound and a catalogue of songs so good they'll shine way after 'The Lovers Are Losing' is long forgotten. They remind you of the kind of records that were played at dinner parties in the 70s, only modernised and not making you want to kill yourself. They're an astounding pop act who are only a couple of boardroom signatures away from being the biggest thing this country has seen in years.

But only because they'd have more mainstream appeal than the sublime Old Romantic Killer Band. The duo's bluesy rock is the antidote to today's more artificial synth-based sound. Their live performances are akin to BB King being raped by Dimebag. The noise they create from just two traditional rock instruments is unique, and too powerful and authentically blues-driven to be compared to the White Stripes, which they often invariably are.

The lyrics are traditional tales of love, sung with soul and screamed with rage. Whilst their recorded work represents one of the finest collections of songs in several years, it's in the live performance that they're at their best.  They improvise solos, flick in and out of jam sessions, and change the structure and flow of the songs themselves. Much like with the late Jeff Buckley, no two shows are the same. The sheer variation of what they can do with their remarkably consistent back catalogue leave even die-hard fans, of which there are already a few and growing, in a permanent state of anticipation and excitement.

A solo amongst the crowd ended a set that rocked the venue more than ever before. It was yet another truly memorable Club COG night, and one that left a number of attendees curious as to how a band like that are not being given the pedestal placing they deserve from NME and the like. That's because the majority of people are, more often than not, very wrong. I'm off to inject a couple of random diabetics with air, then send old Alex a letter with two words on them: 'Job Done'. Until next time,

Muhammad Odeh