Such things don’t matter to Sinister Footwear, as their front man (it’s based on the one Zappa work they don’t like… just go with it) had, in Bananaman fashion, the charismatic strength of ‘20 big men’ and strode on to stage, heralding the arrival of ‘the crazed beautician’, sporting a black version of a dental hygienist uniform, topped off with Bono shades. What made it stranger was that this imposing, Monster Mash creation was flanked by a bunch of really dapper, Madness-esque, pork-pie hatted bandmates who seemed completely unfazed by his antics, which included spending the entire set theatrically smearing copious amounts of black and white makeup all over his face. Thankfully, there’s also no mistaking his incredible voice. Sinister Footwear take you on a whirlwind tour of musical genres – they whip through tempo and keychanges, juxtaposing great big power chords with the tightest multi-instrument unison playing. One minute you’re gripped by a pounding track with overtones of Lovecats when you suddenly find yourself transported to the fug of a late-night, easy listening jazz basement with the ghost of Frank looming large as Poirot suspense chords writhe seductively in the build up to a big New York, New York-style finale. It may have been odd, but they’ll definitely be getting more of my interest. | 
