One of my most consistent mottos in life is, Panic: It gets shit done. Brash, but true. I never thought I would see it demonstrated as perfectly as it was at Boy Cried Wolf’s gig at Camden Barfly last night.

   When the impeccably dressed Wayne Murray took centre stage, ready to launch into the head-bending opener, Ghost In A Photograph, I saw a pale and wide-eyed expression more suited to a man about to enter a cage fight with Vinnie Jones. But the great thing about panic in my experience is that it can bring out the best in people; something tenacious and raw.

   The set list strayed away from a few strong selections from their EP, The Firebrand. The desolate assault of melancholic guitar that is Forever Is A Dirty Word sat comfortably alongside the optimistic Summer Song, a new addition that was almost unnamed, and for a while was known only as Gary…

   They are also adept at providing the most unlikely of anthems. In the same way that I would be bemused by a chant involving tweed, or Emile Heskey, I find it charming that I have never left a Boy Cried Wolf gig without the chorus of ‘We are all…tricycle drivers!’ stuck in my head.

   By the time Tricycle Drivers was played the spaces between songs were punctuated by a level of applause (and a hint of Take That-esque screaming) that I hadn’t heard in The Barfly for a while. It was received with an endearing amount of surprise, with Wayne remarking, “You’re so loud. …It’s so nice!” with a bashful glance at the floor.

   The lyrics to No Comfort From Your Skin, the night’s closer, were penned by Wayne’s touring companion Nicky Wire, of Manic Street Preachers. It’s hardly surprising that the song drags you into a kind of (undeniably catchy) lament; “She’s picking me apart with the weight of her words/And killing my desire.” Heartbreak isn’t only Wire’s domain, however, as the rest of the set list is full of it. Traces Of You is a break-up song waiting to happen, one to put on repeat while working your way through the remains of a bottle of whiskey and going through all the ways in which their new girlfriend may be prettier…or something like that.

   “You’re exciting, we’re exciting, it’s exciting,” Wayne observed, and he was right. It had been a while since I had witnessed The Barfly so animated. I would see Boy Cried Wolf now, as soon as you can. Not only because they are awesome, and genuinely hard to compare to any other bands around right now, but because I doubt you’ll be able to see them in a venue this size for much longer.

    Do it. You won’t be disappointed.

It’s not like me to review the same band twice in a row, but there is a reason behind my fangirling.

   “Are they still going?” was the question that followed almost every mention of going to see Jet. Almost as frequent was this exchange, recounted verbatim:

   “Who are Jet?”

   “You know, Are You Gonna Be My Girl?”

   “Oh yeah! God, are they still going?”

   My favourite remark came in the amused and slightly condescending dismissal of the band with, “Jet, haha brilliant! So retro!”

   Having learnt the back catalogue crash course-style in the week since rediscovering them at Portugal’s Optimus Alive festival, the week preceding their only UK date before disappearing back to Australia, I find these questions harder and harder to comprehend. Not least because Are You Gonna My Girl?, the song that propelled them into mainstream consciousness, has been far surpassed by their later musical output.

   I’ve speculated for longer than the dilemma probably warranted, but it remains a source of bafflement to me that Jet have managed to stray into obscurity in the UK, especially after the experience of seeing them live outside a festival setting.

   Opening with a snarling That’s All Lies, the tone of the gig was set. Retro it was, but in the best of ways. At the front amongst the pogoing the atmosphere was more reminiscent of a 70s punk gig, raw with aggression and resulting in much bruising from over-exciting jumping.

   The set list was nicely split between the three albums. Highlights included the monstrous Black Hearts (On Fire), seeing the venue’s crowd-surfing ban pushed to the max and frontman Nic Cester smouldering his way through the lyrics. La Di Da proved an unlikely touching singalong, and the outrageous tidal wave of riffs that is Start The Show was played ironically in the encore. 

   Nic played his part to perfection, swaggering with Godlike arrogance and his vocals alternating between a combustible growl and deranged screaming. His love for demanding a bit of audience participation apparently never gets old either, judging by Seventeen and Beat On Repeat.

   Meanwhile drummer Chris Cester, also on backing vocals, attacked his drum-kit with the intensity of an unhinged vigilante pulverising a floored mugger. The effect was too big for Shepherds Bush, and only served to reinforce the question of, why aren’t they bigger?

   Are You Gonna Be My Girl? inspired its expected spree of head banging and shouty-pointing from the crowd, and songs like Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is, Hey Kids, and Walk have choruses made for stadiums. Songs with less impact and similar appeal have achieved that in the past (Arctic Monkeys, anyone?), and with much less stage presence and charisma to back them up. So why not Jet?

   There are a few theories that carry weight. One, that they are Australian and therefore not taken inherently seriously by the rock ‘n’ roll aficionados governing UK airplay. Two, that Are You Gonna Be My Girl?, while so incredibly successful at making their name, with a tune that is played in introductions and adverts to this day, became their downfall in the eyes of the UK music Press. They ‘sold-out’, or became ‘too commercial’ or ‘mainstream’; all these words and phrases now so commonly used with fashionable distain.

   Whatever the explanation it’s a sad conundrum. Far from the gimmick that the UK’s knowledge of them makes them out to be, Jet are a fantastic and truly underrated rock ‘n’ roll band. Capable of far more than walls of noise and catchy riffs, their songs range from the grandiose to the gritty; wryly comical (“There is good and there is better/Just like imitation leather”, courtesy of Beat On Repeat), uplifting, raw, anthemic, intelligent, and simple, the best examples of which are sadly not given half of the credit they deserve.

   Come back soon, Jet. I do hope that one day we’ll be ready for you.   

I’ve never liked support bands. Even when they’ve been support bands I’ve liked, I’ve never liked support bands. Bands that are on before my preferred band on a festival bill count as a support band. They tend to serve nothing more than a better (though this is often not the case…) way to pass the time than staring morosely at a drum-kit and backdrop while supporting myself on the barrier because I no longer have the will to stand up straight.

   Jet were, at first, in the unfortunate position of being such a band. Two bands on before the Manics at Optimus Alive Festival in Portugal, I hadn’t even fully recovered from the sprint to the barrier in temperatures of over thirty-five degrees.

(For those of you who don’t know or can’t remember who Jet are, think “Dum dum dum du-du-dum da-da-da duh-duh-duh-da-da-duh-duh So, one two three take my hand and come with me because you look so fine and I really wanna make you mine!” Yes, that was the only song I knew of theirs too.)

   A vague memory of owning one album while only knowing one song at the age of sixteen was all I had to make me interested. Then they came onstage.

   It was symptomatic of my ignorance of them post-2006 that I was surprised at Are You Gonna Be My Girl? being played in the middle of the set. Why would they play their best song before the end? I thought. Turns out, to my surprise, that it isn’t their best song. Not by far.

   Vocalist and rhythm guitarist Nic Cester has benefited massively from cutting his hair, not least because his stage presence (which he has in excess) is now reinforced by the realisation that he is very, very attractive. The squeal of, “Ooh, the singer’s cute!” to my right confirmed my theory. He also has the perfect (almost to the point of rock parody) voice for this style of music.

   She’s A Genius was the song I could still hum afterwards and that I could sing along to after one chorus. It’s an exemplary song as far as gritty rock goes, with a riff that goes straight to your elbows and seems to demand a Michael Stipe-esque dance*. Rip It Up also ranked high in the singalong ranks. Black Hearts (and I must admit Youtube and Wikipedia have aided me in discovering what these songs were actually called) had the same effect, but with a great melody to match. There are countless chants here, made for a mass clap-along.

   By the end of the set I was genuinely sorry to see them leave the stage, which they did to a residue chant from their moment of audience participation during the catchy, but oddly moving, Seventeen. Their set had been such an unexpected jolt of fun that I had even failed to notice the festival photographers taking many shots of me gazing up at the stage, with the sort of smile on my face that made me look like I was on day release and had lost my medication…

   I don’t know enough about them to write an informed and Q-worthy review, yet reviewing them I am. Upon returning from Portugal after the end of the festival the first thing I did was check what UK dates they were playing. I have nothing to convey, nothing of journalistic worth, apart from total over-excitement in the realisation that a band I had forgotten about have not only been rediscovered, but have become rather brilliant in the years that passed. 

   If you, like me, have the opening riff of Are You Gonna Be My Girl? imprinted in your mind until the end of humanity, you will be surprised at how far they have come since. If you, like me, love uplifting, dirty and raw rock ‘n’ roll, buy Shaka Rock and I can guarantee you will not be disappointed.

* I feel the need to add, as a disclaimer, that this may be because I was on the barrier and therefore unable to move anything but my arms and my head…

Toulouse didn’t sell itself well. From the moment I arrived to about four hours before doors the rain poured solidly, almost mockingly. Also the venue, Le Bikini, doesn’t appear to live up to its glamorous title, being situated in the middle of a largely deserted industrial estate full of nothing but warehouses and a very conspicuous Mexican Grill. Also, this gig is cursed.

   No really, it is. The first time Kasabian were due to play here the gig was cancelled a week before the event for no publicised reason. The second time the gig was cancelled an hour before the event due to three members of the band suffering from seafood-induced food poisoning in Marseilles.

   So third time lucky then?

   Queuing was a solemn and short affair. Two hours before doors I was worrying whether the four people there would turn out to be the extent of the crowd; such was the conviction of the French that this gig was destined to never take place. But after the very shakiest of starts Toulouse produced the most wild, jovial, enthusiastically-singing crowd of the European tour. Where they all came from, I don’t know. Maybe they were all hiding in the warehouses?

   The band matched the crowd’s stellar form, despite Tommy’s…shirt. Also despite a set list that was cut annoyingly short compared to other dates, they still managed to fit in the expected (Empire, Underdog, Club Foot, Fire, and a stomping version of Vlad The Impaler that saw Serge on his back, writhing on the floor of the stage playing the outro) and the unexpected (the return of the mighty Reason “K-I-L-L!!!” Is Treason).

   Serge, usually inclined to stand away from his microphone with his head down and his customary “Don’t look at me. No, really, do not look at me” expression, spent most of the gig dancing, stamping, pouting, and on the floor. I suspect alcohol may have played a part but I am not complaining because, due to his burst of hyperactivity, he handed me his set list.

   Tommy was quieter than usual, but then most things would look subdued next to his…shirt. I jest. He was also on good terms with the front rows, grabbing people’s hands, winking and executing some very Roger Daltrey-esque whirls of his microphone.

   One suspects this is the last leg of the West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum tour, and this instantly begs the question, where now? “African groove”, “sexual groove” and “middle east” are the phrases that have appeared in the Press so far. But whether they come from Serge or from uninformed speculation has been unclear.

   For a fan it means the excruciating division of opinion: on the one hand too much success will spell the end of all this, the chats at stage door, the small venues, the barrier within touching distance of the stage, the winks, the smiles, the elements aside from the music that made us fall in love from the front row. With success come stadiums, high stages, miles of barrier, and a distance between the band and the fans that can hardly ever be reversed. On the other hand, to wish for a sub-standard album would be unthinkable.

   Whatever happens, at least we have the gigs like Toulouse. That’s enough for now.  

Once again, due to my habit of intentionally ignoring everything NME has to say with fingers in my ears and a loud, ‘Blah blah blah, The Skids, blah blah blah…’ I have been rather slow on the uptake with this band, but bear with me.

   I first stumbled across them supporting Florence & The Machine at Hammersmith Apollo.  They were preceded by an almost 50s-style scene with an outbreak of banshee screaming and one girl behind me, fanning herself in preparation for lead singer Jonathan Pierce to come onstage, exclaiming with no hint of irony, ‘Oh he’s so dreamy!’ By the time they came on my eyebrows had almost disappeared into my fringe in disbelief, especially when the legendary Johnny finally entered the stage, dressed like someone doing ‘dandy schoolboy’ in a satirical play with a haircut so retro I questioned whether it could be real.

   Once they started playing however, in a charming and raw style that bought to mind an optimistic and camp version of Joy Division, I not only started to like them, but I started to find Johnny inexplicably attractive within about three songs. By the end of their set I may have even flailed while saying, ‘Oh, I love him!’ On the one hand there’s his dancing, which alternates between an Ian Curtis-esque shuffle and a flourish of Adam Ant-style posturing. While part of you wants to dismiss him as a tragic indie car crash, a more overwhelming part of you knows that he’s cool enough to get away with it. On the other hand though there is his singing, which is undeniably strong, able to express both irony and charm.

   Then there is the issue of their stage door persona, a tripping point for any band, where an arrogant attitude or a snappy comment can put me off a band’s music for life. I saw his fringe before I saw him, and hoped that someone else would stop him considering I didn’t know his name at the time and I wanted a smoother opener than, ‘Guy from the drums!’  Luckily someone obliged and Johnny took a round of obligatory photos before I chipped in with a devastatingly cool, ‘Excuse me…’ I am glad to say that, despite the onstage strut, he was one of the most polite musicians I have ever met. Upon my camera breaking he insisted on waiting until we had got a photo I was happy with, even offering to fix it while his arm was still around me. Allow me a moment to sigh…

   After the gig I bought their recent EP, Summertime! It comes across as the polar opposite of their live sound, but that is no bad thing. Songs like Let’s Go Surfing, Make You Mine and Best Friend (from their Best Friend EP) sound like they were produced on a jaunty, aged 60s record. Live they sounded like a hyperactive 80s throwback, torn between punk and cheesy pop. Johnny’s energy is contained in a way that it can’t be onstage, but the effect is a blissful, upbeat and surprisingly original record.

   The real star of the show is the last track of the EP, I Felt Stupid. It’s a song that could have leapt straight from a musical, like Hairspray or Grease, only…decent. It’s almost unbearably charming, but so touching and sincere it’s hard not to succumb to visions of Johnny, in his rolled-up trousers and white socks, singing ‘I don’t know if it’s right or wrong but come stay with me, I wanna hear every beat of your heart’ to you across a US diner…or maybe that’s just me, but you get my point.

   The Drums are playing two nights at Heaven, London, in early June. Go. They’re lovely, captivating live, have two very strong EPs, and the tickets on Ebay are reasonably priced. Please, do go.

PS - Sorry for the extended break. It will never happen again, cross my heart…

There will be a review here soon, of Lady Gaga at the Cardiff CIA, maybe even in the next day or so if I’m on form. It puts into perspective how hard writing can be, how limiting your own language is, when you can’t find any word to describe how mindblowing, how spectacular, how iconic, and how inhuman in her performing perfection Lady Gaga really is. There are no words, just a pang of genuine sadness that I’ll probably never witness another gig like that again, worry that someone who burns so strongly and so brightly can’t persist at her momentum, nostalgia that would be more fitting for Woodstock or Live Aid, and bewilderment, wonder at how something could fall to earth with such talent.

   The Madonna comparisons are shown up to be lazy and uninformed. Her influences such as David Bowie and Freddie Mercury are far more fitting. Lady Gaga, in every sense, is the Spider From Mars. She is Lady Stardust. She is the spirit of hundreds and thousands of people clapping in time to Radio Gaga in 1985.

   There will be a review here, but consider this a pre-review, a reaction, a desperate need to expel the effects of last night onto a page without regards for cohesion or order.

   There will be words. Later. But I may have to invent new ones.

“Apparently Ed O’Brien called me a wanker!” Nicky Wire explodes before the Manics’ glorious decade-spanning set draws to a close. “Fuck off back to boarding school you c***!” Almost twenty years into his career and he hasn’t lost his taste for an ill-advised fight, or an ill-advised amount of makeup. Less smokey-eyed and more deranged racoon, but still as full of anarchistic enthusiasm as he was at the beginning.

It feels like the beginning, in this venue that is the size of a glorified living room. It even starts at the beginning with the opening chords of rarely played Strip It Down from the band’s very first EP. One suspects that some of the venue mistook it for a new song. The next few were more recognisable though, Motorcycle Emptiness, Kevin Carter, Tsunami, From Despair To Where, interspersed with gems such as 2001’s gritty rock anthem Found That Soul, and lest we forget the first number one of this Millennium, Masses Against The Classes. James Dean Bradfield’s voice, that can fill 70,000 capacity stadiums, seems almost too big for the space. It’s a wonder there was any makeup left on the faces of the front row, so visceral was the attack of sound.

The only respite is provided by James’ brief acoustic interlude. A heart-rending rendition of another B-Side, Donkeys, and the familiar singalong that is The Everlasting gives just enough time for the front row to ease their bruised ribs, and for Nicky to change into something more comfortable. “Welsh tartan!” he exclaims on his return to the stage sporting a pink leopard-print mini skirt that an Essex hen night would be proud of. I jest. “You’ve still got the legs, Wire,” was James’ remark and I can only agree. 41 years old and he can still give female fans an inferiority complex. However as James begins to snarl into the mic again, You Love Us has never seemed more apt.   

The Manics, despite Nicky’s occasional pontificating about his politics degree (something that ironically can be attributed to absent member Richey Edwards, who Nicky has cited as being responsible for most of his essays…) and the band’s own fierce self-deprecation that has seen them throw commercial success back in the UK public’s face many times, have always been nothing if not 4real. While other bands merely hinted at, or sang about, revolution, the Manics endeavoured to create one. In a way, maybe they have. As well as an output of nine studio albums, one B-Sides collection, one Greatest Hits, and a scattering of EPs, the Manics can also count themselves responsible for the bookshelves and DVD collections of fans up and down the country and across the seas. JG Ballard, Sylvia Plath, Bret Easton Ellis, and Jack Lemmon sit alongside Public Enemy, Shirley Maclaine and the ever-present kohl-eyed spirit of Richey Edwards.

Never has a gig gone by without a tribute to their lost friend and tonight was no exception. No encore after A Design For Life, but of course they will be back. Back to the beginning and, hopefully, nowhere near the end.