London Camden Monarch

Sub-Suede, that's Subcircus. And they get away with it, to begin with, because the stroppy, choppy menace of 'Man Of The Year' sends you reeling. The tune is as toned and muscular as singer PB Jnr, who looks like he models for chatline ads, but yowls with a voice that can shift gear in an instant from Molko moan to brutish roar.

Coming on like a full-on crooner during second number 'Rented' is also, surprisingly, a good thing, and you begin to feel that all those sarky "Placebohead" remarks levelled at Subcircus were grossly unfair, and not a little misguided. But then they kick into 'Filthy Fucker' and it all goes a bit lurid. Gothic chord sequences. Mutterings about "redemption" and "backstreets". No real chorus in sight. Oh dear.

Just as PB's gruesome sleeveless leather top gives the lie to his decadent urban imp persona, so second-hand Brett-isms serve to undermine the urgent drama conjured by Nikolaj Bloch's spiky guitar lines. There's always something which saves these songs from parody - even the stomper 'For Those Who Cannot Weep' builds up a head of steam - but the band can't help but emulate those pop heroes they so obviously admire. Just like Suede themselves, by proving to be huge Bowie fans Subcircus simply serve to make us realise who we'd rather be listening to.