Cardiff Terminal 396

...their presence lingers on. Lingers, like a stubborn bloodstain.

On paper, it looks like a disaster. Fjted by Fat Les. A song called ‘Kebab Or Shag?’. And that god-awful name. But local lore says Aberystwyth’s [a]Murry The Hump[/a] can’t put a foot wrong. And tonight, the rumours are all true.

What’s great about the Hump is crystallised in the body of Matthew Evans. The greatest streak-of-piss frontman since Jarvis Cocker, he hurls his lofty frame into blunderous scissor-kicks and AC/DC-style stage acrobatics. Meanwhile, current single, ‘Booze And Cigarettes’, lurches from a flowery love fable into a thunderous T Rex burnout. Sweet, funny, utterly irresistible.

Similarly fjted are The Crocketts – although it’s a bit trickier to understand why. Three seconds in, and their frontman – that’s, er, Davey Crockett – gets a full pint between the eyes. Accident? Hardly. Bring it on, motherf–er!

Frankly, the best way to treat the lumpen pub-rock of last album, ‘The Great Brain Robbery’, is to turn it into a bar brawl. But on the small-town angst of ‘Lucifer’, and the wired accordion-punk of ‘On Something’, The Crocketts give Gladiator a run for its money in the visceral thrill stakes.

They’re not heroes. They’re certainly not role models. But once they’ve clambered off, gore pouring from Davey‘s head after a nasty, apparently intentional collision with his guitar, their presence lingers on. Lingers, like a stubborn bloodstain.