Glasgow King Tut's Wah Wah Hut

[a]Nirvana[/a] is the most obvious touchstone here...

Glasgow King Tut's Wah Wah Hut

My Vitriol are that most precious of propositions; a young band so attuned to their own unique wavelength that their influences are rendered mere background details - bit-players in a bigger, altogether more interesting picture.

Nirvana is the most obvious touchstone here, but the impassioned, epicurean swell of 'Pieces' and their infectious belief in the power of the Classic Pop Tune belie their rawer, 'Bleach'-ed roots. Even when goth's coffin lid creaks slightly ajar on opener (and debut single) 'Always Your Way', and the chimes of prog clang mournfully during the thunderous 'Cemented', My Vitriol project a spirited ingenuity that sees them transcend any ancestral baggage. They are great. Soon, they will be greater still.

A belief that also, evidently, grips Bristol's Crashland. Charging through their fizzing cocktail of punkified pop and daft, new wave-y histrionics, you're reminded of the 2D swagger of early Supergrass - a headstrong, ludicrous energy that effectively hushes doubts over the relevance of their often over-familiar material.

What's more, singer Alex Troup is clearly lost in the Day-Glo mythos of his own music; his lo-slung growl tearing through the charged backwoods of 'Modern Animal' and 'Lemonade', while simultaneously recalling the furious self-belief of Terris' Gavin Goodwin. A more potent, solvent image will be required for the long-haul but, for now, Crashland's sheer ridiculousness makes perfect sense.

Unlike, unfortunately, this evening's elder chairmen (and woman) of the rock board, Cay. Tonight is, to all intents and purposes, a celebration of the eternally fortifying, redemptive force of rock. Yet nu-metal pit ponies Cay are - on this showing at least - as liable to galvanise our rock-hungry young as a bikini-clad Barbara Cartland is likely to appear in Loaded.

Juggling hopelessly with grunge's brittle bones, Anet Mook and co's shtick is the scuzzy no-man's-land between the relentless grind of early Hole and the bleary-eyed slouch-core of Mudhoney. But, crucially, they possess neither the roustabout humour of the latter or, indeed, an ounce of the former's white-knuckle wrath. Instead, it's all tuneless bluster and empty poses round Cay's way; churning, laborious blasts of aimless noise that only serve to remind us of the effortless art and imagination of their forebears.

For those who came to rock, we salute you. For those content to squat spiritlessly on the shoulder of giants, however, we hang our head in despair.

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