The French Kicks are no longer the fired up Brooklyn based guitar-driven band they used to be. When I last saw them play live nearly three years ago, they rocketed through a succession of simple, punchy tunes with a wired post-punk edge. They were good enough in the moment but did little to inspire me to pencil in a date in my diary the next time they were to hit town. Three years onward and it appears some things have changed whilst some things have not.

The first change I noticed was that the quartet has since become a quintet, despite the fact that the band’s website still refers to them as a 4-piece. The most notable change was evident in their sound. The band has become more resolute in their sonic direction and, as a result, they’ve honed a more matured, refined sound that is primarily based on melodies and subtle yet catchy pop hooks.

The 5-piece, fronted by lanky front-man Nick Stumpf, leisurely worked their way through a set exemplary of their musical history. Earlier material brought forth less energetic renditions of the band’s more guitar-driven days whilst later material revealed a steady progression toward a softer, more melodic pop-driven sound injected with subtle keyboard enhancements. Although The French Kicks sound nothing like New York compatriots The Strokes, some of their songs do bear a slight resemblance in their minimalist structuring and catchy, simplistic chord arrangements. Their current sound tends to be more sophisticated in its arrangements and maintains a more polished pop accessibility, baring more of a resemblance to the Walkmen or a less synth- driven take on The Postal Service. This mixture of pop melodies and synth subtleties results in a less 80s-dated synth-pop sound than that of many of their contemporaries.

Simple, melodic and palatable to the ear, the French Kicks delivered a consistent performance covering a range of material that should have seemed less constant given the historical scope. Although pleasant, the performance failed to inspire and neglected to make a strong, immediate impression. It was a good show in the moment, however The French Kicks failed to give me the ‘kick’ their name implies.

The D-Shift Band seem a strange choice to play The Queen Is Dead - with a classic sound reminiscent of such solo artists as Bruce Springsteen and Richard Thompson, and hints of Motown and blues, they really don’t seem to fit with the obvious indie staples of the club. Which is most certainly a compliment.

Tonight, the band provide a much-needed dash of interest, mixed with a strange sense of comfort. Perhaps, indeed, I like their songs so much because they remind me of my childhood. Perhaps it’s because they really do seem unusual among the various “scenes” of the moment. Or perhaps it’s simply because their songs are catchy enough to remain in your head after only a few listens.

Live, these songs sound particularly good. The bluesy, bass-heavy “You Don’t Know”, the rockier, guitar-driven “Back To These Streets” and the “Rock The Casbah” feel of “3am” provide a perfect mix of the band’s various styles and influences. Okay, so the band don’t look like other bands around at the moment (although singer Trev wouldn’t look out of place in Vincent Vincent and the Villains), in that they don’t appear to have spent hours considering their appearance and image, but hey - isn’t that just one more reason to love them??

The D Shift Band play You’re So Old Street’s 2nd birthday party on Friday 15th April at the Pleasure Unit, Bethnal Green

“I wanna go where the people go…”

It has never been “cool” to like The Wildhearts and it never will be. They are too unashamedly rock ‘n’ roll: too metal for the indie crowd, too tuneful for the hardcore metallers. Which is a shame, since their songs possess some of the most catchy harmonies and hummable riffs of any songs around.

For a number of years the band were Kerrang!’s favourite soap opera. They split up and re-formed more times than The Verve, lost members left right and centre, accidentally set fire to hotel rooms, and once famously trashed the Kerrang! office, no doubt making every writer wet his pants in excitement. This was the stuff that kept magazines flying from shelves!

Time passes, however, and things change. These days there is a more serious edge to proceedings. Bassist Danny McCormack is in rehab again, replaced on the May 2003 tour by Jon Poole of the Silver Ginger 5, and Ginger’s recent page-long article in Kerrang! reveals a man who has been through every stereotype of rock hell and emerged stronger, reaching back a hand to try and pull his friends out of the wreckage with him. And this is somehow reflected in their set at the Forum in Kentish Town, a strangely more mature show than any other Wildhearts gig I have witnessed. Every song comes into its own: “My Baby Is A Headfuck” is a frenetic pop-punk singalong, “Sky Babies” an anthem of sheer beauty, “Sick of Drugs”, now imbued with a darker meaning, has the crowd pogoing insanely.

Noticeable by its absence is any material from 1997’s “Endless Nameless”, which is a shame, since it would be interesting to see what this older, wider Wildhearts could do with songs which still indicated Ginger’s ability to write infectious tunes, albeit masked under distortion and a garage style rock production. But it’s hard to find any fault with the set the band *do* provide, or with their stage presence. Jon Pool does an admirable job of filling Danny’s shoes, while Ginger chats cheerfully to the crowd between songs. These are not new fans, but those who have remained faithful over the years, and the show is a celebration of everything the band and the fans have survived together.

The Wildhearts still know how to have fun. But these days they know where the party ends, and they are all the better for it.

You only have to do a quick search on ebay to see how insane the world seems to have gone recently for all things White Stripes since the release of Elephant. At the end of last year, previous singles were selling for merely a few pounds. Now prices have trebled and more. A recent seven inch of “Hello Operator/Jolene” (and no, not the picture disc!) sold for the incredible price of £102. And yet the record is still available direct from Sympathy Records!

One has to feel grateful, therefore, that tickets for the April tour went on sale long before the release of Elephant, when White Stripes fever spread from the music press to infect even the daily papers. This may be an elitist attitude, but fuck it, that’s partly what music’s about, isn’t it?! And, of course, what keeps bands playing at still fairly reasonably sized venues such as Brixton. Certainly, I can’t imagine the same atmosphere existing the next time the White Stripes tour, when suddenly the entire population of the country wants to see them purely because they’ve been told that they should.

The atmosphere in Brixton Academy tonight, however, is one of sheer adulation, the band at that precious point where everyone at the gig is a “fan”, everyone knows the songs, and not a drunken fuckwit is heard yelling “Play “Fell In Love With A Girl”!” between every song. Moreover, with a crowd of fans 4,200 strong, the devotion filling the venue is truly intense!

Jack and Meg themselves, of course, are not those to indulge and mollycoddle a crowd. At Reading last summer, after all, they played only three songs from “White Blood Cells”, the only album most of the festival crowd had heard. This means that we get an impressive mix of songs spanning the band’s entire career to date rather than an advert for the new album. And song flows into song almost magically; the frenetic garage yell of Astro merging into Jack The Ripper, Offend In Every Way making an appearance only for two brief verses.

Every song the band plays is amplified, becoming somehow “more” than it is on record. Songs that don’t excel on record are lifted, so that The Union Forever becomes an anthemic blast which could (and maybe will) fill stadiums and even tracks which appear to all intents and purposes perfect are transformed, with Apple Blossom amplified from a sweet bluesy tune to something worthy of Dylan himself. And the new songs! Seven Nation Army sends the crowd wild, and when Meg comes out from behind the drums to sing Cold, Cold Night the silence in the venue underpins a moment of sheer beauty.

Yes, the White Stripes deserve to be huge. But how many of those in Brixton Academy must wish we could hang onto them for just a little longer…?

For some reason I was worried before the gig that the chart pop of “Move Your Feet” would have some bearing on the audience at the Scala - perhaps expecting a crowd of Westlife fans chaperoned by Mum. It takes about two seconds for me to realise how stupid this was, and then another two seconds before I ponder whether a tornado has somehow transported the Scala from King’s Cross to Shoreditch without my noticing, such are the number of mullets and 80’s t-shirts on display.

What’s more, the Queens of Noize are Dj-ing, and the crowd already seem to be in the mood for a party, singing and dancing along to every track - even, it turns out, those they don’t know, for by the end of the Queens’ own “Indie Boys”, several of the crowd have started chanting the repeated refrain. This turns out to be a good indicator of the rest of the gig, which is simply one big party. The band bound on, complete with friends who have come all the way over from Denmark to dance madly at the side of the stage. And since, from the word go, they all seem to be having the time of their lives, the crowd get even wilder: dancing, screaming and waving their arms as Junior Senior storm through a set of perfect punked-up pop comprising pretty much their entire album.

Senior stirs up the crowd, singing directly to them even to the point of sitting on the front of the stage in a sea of reaching hands. Junior is mostly hidden in his hair, whether staring down at his guitar of with his face raised to the mike, but his between-song grins are infectious. And, when the band leave after a rousing rendition of “Twist And Shout” with their “friend Lars” (everyone, including the crowd, seems to be first and foremost, a friend; an atmosphere which only adds to the sense of the gig being the world’s largest house party), he shakes hands cheerfully with the front row, band and crowd sharing their excitement.

Junior Senior don’t have a huge repertoire of songs. The only non-album track they play is “Twist and Shout” and, when they return for an encore, since their intended final song is “very short”, they run “Chicks ‘n’ Dicks” by us for the second time. But this is a party and everyone is having fun - they could play one song repeatedly for the entire set and the response would still probably be ecstatic, since the band know how to entertain purely, it seems, by having a good time themselves - and inviting everyone around them to, with stage invasions by both a conga of friends and the crowd. But it certainly does help that they have an array of tunes to soundtrack the event, from the disco-pop of “Move Your Feet” to the punked-up rock ‘n’ roll of the finale, “White Trash”, which ends with Junior jumping repeatedly on and off the drumkit.

Such is the degree to which both band and audience have worked themselves up with the set that, at Junior’s insistence, the band return for a second time for a celebratory repeat of their recent single. For, to all intents and purposes, that is what this gig is - a celebration, which leaves everyone in the venue on a high. This is one live show that has to be seen to be believed. Junior Senior play the Mean Fiddler in July. Be there.

The last time I was at the Mean Fiddler there was no barrier in front of the stage. Therapy? fans, however, must be considered a particular rabid breed of enthusiasts, since the front of the stage has been raised and a metal barrier erected a few feet in front of it. And it’s certainly not in place for 3 Stages of Pain. The singer flails about screaming tunelessly over a mediocre crashing from the rest of the band. “Fuck off!” yells one member of the audience and, judging by the lack of applause, everyone else is thinking much the same.

Miss Black America gain a slightly more enthusiastic response. Verging on a rather tinny three-chord punk, they seem, however, amazing in comparison to the aural assault of 3 Stages of Pain. However, even the Mean Fiddler seems too large for them. Listen with your eyes closed and you could almost be in the Monarch. Which is certainly the biggest venue that Miss Black America deserve.

After twelve years and nine albums, Therapy? have built up quite a devoted fanbase, and the reaction they get when they first step onto the stage is certainly intense. The band themselves seem thrilled at the reception, Michael and Andy grinning all over their faces while Martin manages frequent surprised exclamations. The set consists of approximately half material from the band’s new album, “High Anxiety”, while the rest is old favourites. Both are welcomed rapturously, but it is the well-known songs - “Church Of Noise”, “Die Laughing”, “Trigger Inside” and an electric cello assisted “Stories” - that drive the crowd into a frenzy of excitement.

The only thing that mars the gig is the terrible sound in the venue - at the front the vocals in particular are actually painful. But Cairns and co. keep going with admirable enthusiasm, Andy himself gazing demonically over the crowd, but unable to hide an ecstatic grin. When the band reach “Potato Junkie”, the crowd go mad - an insanity which only increases when Therapy? return to the stage to storm through a frenetic “Knives” and “Screamager”. As yet, the new material doesn’t quite live up to the old, but when Cairns promises to see us again in the autumn, one imagines that by then they will be practised enough at playing their new material live to provide a flawless set.

The one drawback to Dingwalls is the temperature. These days more usually a comedy venue, the heat created by a full crowd of over-excited gig-goers is almost unbearable by the time Billy Childish comes onstage. Performing a solo set, rather than with his current band the Buff Medways, Childish is, however, very well received, even encouraged to play a one-song encore. His voice grates menacingly over the country twang of a lone guitar, giving a strange suggestion of Johnny Cash, if Cash came from the Medway towns. Childish is worth bearing the heat for, although a better place to catch him would be in his monthly gigs at the Dirty Water Club in Tufnell Park.

Childish’s labelmates, You Am I, hit the stage soon after, beginning with a two-song acoustic set by frontman Tim Rogers. Strangely, although the crowd’s excitement suggests they have been waiting years for this performance, the buzz of conversation is still clearly audible over Rogers’s voice and, frankly, this part of the performance seems a little ill-advised. Certainly the more enthusiastic reactions are reserved for the moment when the rest of the band pick up their instruments, crashing into their first number with practised fervour. And practised is what they are. Technically, one cannot fault the band; if all they intend is to provide rock song after rock song then they certainly excel at this. However, the crowd’s obvious devotion is a little harder to fathom. It suggests that there is more to You Am I than meets the eye, but one live performance is certainly not enough to prove this.

The over-eager riffs of “Kick A Hole In The Sky” show You Am I at their very worst - a guitar band seeming to perpetually habituate a Led Zepellin-inspired seventies (after all, they have the hair for it) - and, while the more mournful, slightly ballad-esque melodies of “Heavy Heart” provide pleasant listening, the band rarely reach more than average.

You Am I have been one of Australia’s favourite bands for nearly ten years. If this is all the Aussies had then one can hardly blame the world for getting so excited about The Vines…

Outside tickets are selling for £65 apiece. This website-advertised, fans-only, well-nigh-impossible-to-get-hold-of-tickets-for Radiohead gig is a hotly anticipated event. After all, when was the last time Radiohead played such an intimate venue? I remember refusing to go and see them back in ‘97 since I avoid on principle any event linked to the words “Wembley” and “Arena”. Of course, since then the band’s popularity has waxed and waned, with two slightly less popular albums than 1997’s “OK Computer” which, however, cemented their status as the serious muso’s favourites.

At the time “Kid A” was released, I remember thinking that Thom Yorke had disappeared up his own introverted arse and “Amnesiac” barely altered this opinion. Funny, then, that not a single song the band play tonight is a bad one! The stage seems to soften the computer-generated posturings of “Kid A” and amplify Yorke’s voice - always one of Radiohead’s greatest assets. Although feedback and xylophones and strange sound effects abound, the beauty never lessens and (rather bizarrely, since the only song they play from the album is “Fake Plastic Trees”), the set evokes the mood of 1995’s “The Bends” rather than any later efforts, with “Knives Out”, “Pyramid Song” and the haunting new “Sail To The Moon” perfectly fitting into this setting.

Of course, no matter what Radiohead had produced, the 2,000 assembled fans would have continued to worship them anyway. But the atmosphere at what is displayed is one of sheer awe. From the ominous beauty of “Climbing Up the Walls” to the poetically lyrical strains of “Lucky”, Radiohead prove that they are most definitely still a force to be reckoned with.

ULU is never the most pleasant venue to watch a band in, and the heat and oppressive student union atmosphere of the place become fifty times worse if you have a cold. Small wonder, then, that I am considering leaving before Sparklehorse even take the stage.

By “Gasoline Horseys”, a mere handful of songs into the set, however, I am thanking God that I never gave into my whim. Chillingly beautiful - more so even than on record, the song submerges us totally into a set that leaves nothing to be desired - save the wish that it could have been longer.

And it seems I am not the only one to think so. The cheering between songs is deafening, and the whoops at the opening chords of each suggest that this is a crowd who have studied Mark Linkous’s back catalogue well. And so the announcement that he will play a few songs not usually played live is greeted ecstatically and, although the former, “Hundreds of Sparrows” perhaps loses a little of its simplistic melody when played live, with Linkous alternating between normal and distorting microphones, the latter, “Happy Man” is one of the highlights of the set; a heartbreakingly ragged anthem.

The two new songs played this evening, the former to an eerie backdrop of skulls (for almost every song is accompanied by a mysterious array of swirling images on a screen behind the band), are greeted with, if this is at all possible, even more enthusiasm than those more quickly recognised. Even Linkous seems a little surprised by the volume of the crowd’s reaction, thanking them repeatedly. The former song is perhaps more deserving of such adulation; with squalling “Pig”-esque guitar and distorted vocal. The latter, played in the encore, is in Sparklehorse’s more melodic vein, and perhaps holds more promise for record.

The all-too-short two song encore finishes with an incredible haunting rendition of “Homecoming Queen”, enough to bring tears to the eyes. Or maybe that’s my cold. Whatever, for that brief hour Sparklehorse were a better cure than Lemsip could ever be. And I shall forever love them for it!

With a new single out on Monday, Junior Senior are back in London, this time to a slightly larger and more varied crowd than the Hoxton Junkies that populated their gig at the Scala. It’s nice to see, however, that constant touring has removed none of their enthusiasm for gigs, an excitement so infectious that they have the crowd clapping and dancing almost as soon as they hit the stage.

The set contains no surprises, consisting as it does of almost the entire album, with a frenzied cover of “Twist and Shout” thrown in for an ecstatic encore. But then Junior Senior aren’t really a band that need to surprise to engage their audience, they work far better with well-loved favourites and party anthems such as “Move Your Feet” and “Shake Your Coconuts”. It would, perhaps, have been nice to have heard a little new material, although the alterations to new single, “Rhythm Bandits”, with singalong intro and funkier backing, goes some way to redressing this.

Those who witnessed the gig at the Scala, however, may have felt some pangs of disappointment at the slightly lessened party atmosphere of this gig, although this is really the fault of the venue rather than the band. Generally, however, Junior Senior take to the change of environment and audience admirably. What will be interesting, however, is how they cope with an early afternoon slot on the main stage at Reading…