King Adora: Edinburgh The Venue

Aaargh! Day-glo glam-punk splutterings like the Manics used to make before they discovered Pet Sounds...

Comic-book glam-pups King Adora are – and let’s not beat around the sleaze-punk bush here – ridiculous. They appear – Great Soprendo style – in a spanglesome hail of glitter and ill-fitting gladrags, pouting and posing like Barbie’s sluttish schoolmates.

Kerblam! There’s singer Matt, a sandpaper-throated urchin wriggling lasciviously in a tea-bag sized boob tube. Wham! There’s guitarists Martyn and Robbie – cheekbones like the Alps, scowling like someone’s hidden their last tin

of Slim Fast. And see that bizarrely unicorn-haired bloke at the back? That’s drummer Dan, that is – arms spinning like Animal out of The Muppets, face the colour of a bruised, yet oddly glamorous, plum.

King Adora have, essentially, one song: a sex-sludge pop feast poised, wobblingly, on the trapeze that separates enormo-haired ’80s metallers like Guns N’Roses and sleazoid garage-punkas like The Stooges. All of which would, of course, be terribly exciting and sexy, had the whole shebang not been invented by the Manic Street Preachers like, ten years ago.

Still, what the regal ones lack in originality, they make up for in brilliantly theatrical bravado. It’s hard, then, to grumble in the ludicrously made-up faces of singles ‘Bionic’ and ‘Smoulder’ – two three-minute blasts of ramalama-ding-dong shag-pop delivered with energy, sass and chutzpah to spare. With nu-metal’s soberly cerebral troops advancing the cause of intelligence in rock, the Adora proffer proudly no-brainer, shame-free punk-rock thrills that live, splendidly, for the now.

After precisely thirty minutes of such wallopingly ace nonsense, they shamble off without a word. They have, it would be safe to say, made their point.

Sarah Dempster