大象传媒

"It's been nice, not too nice mind, slightly dirty". Tahita Bulmer, lead singer and all-round frisky filly of the New Young Pony Club delivers a most apt verdict on her band's performance. Looks-wise she is Annabella Lwin's clone, a Bow Wow Wow of a performer, jerking and gyrating like an automaton Grace Jones. Bulmer, and New Young Pony Club, are stars in the making. The band has a fine stable of songs, not least the electro clash meltdown of 'Ice Cream'. A song so hot it causes the electrics to short. However, determined to take us the final furlong, NYPC thrash it out a second time, their efforts redoubled and rewarded with much waving of glow-sticks.

Yes, it is the NME Indie Rave Tour. Hence the day-glo nation gathered in Mandela Hall, chavin' it large and waving glow-sticks like it's 1989. Kind of. Accessories and a couple of ironic covers aside, what these acts have to do with rave I have no idea. But, let's not worry about the packaging, it's the product that counts and we've got a fearsome foursome to contend with this evening.

More cowbell. Sunshine Underground a band in thrall to the sound of the cowbell. Initially things don't look too promising, they're giving it a bit of attitude, all geezer schtick, brash guitars and electronic flourishes, reminding us of Kasabian, there are hints too of Hard-Fi in 'Borders', but really it's none too inspiring, the sandpaper guitars becoming repetitious, starting to fray our nerves. Then the ace up the sleeve, yes, cowbell. I jest not. When they give it a bit of bell things really come alive, the finale a frenzied assault of obliterating rhythms.

The caped crusaders, CSS take to the stage in silken black shrouds. Slowly to the classic strains of 2 Unlimited they discard these garments, but there remains a figure of mystery, now sporting a fetching body suit, a jumping pink pixie, it can only be Love Foxxx. From start to finish CSS offer up an effervescent musical extravaganza. They are irrepressible, charisma and tunes galore, dance, rock, funk a glorious riot of sound. Music really is their hot hot sex. They stun us with 'Alala', bamboozle us with the twisted tuneage of 'Meeting Paris Hilton' and sock it to us with the bass-heavy funkarama that is 'Let's Make Love'. Bravo.

Klaxons are on a mission to subvert pop, songs that are wired to the moon, extraterrestrial, ethereal and often downright daft. A mish-mash of Martian melodies, staccato guitars, alternating screamo / falsetto vocals and tweaking keys. Bish bash bosh, 'The Bouncer' provides a bold opening; 'Atlantis To Interzone' keeps it pounding. Then foot off the pedal and the electronic candyfloss of Golden Skans. Sublime. For sheer enjoyment the evening reaches a crescendo with a squelching, squeaking cover of Grace's 'Not Over Yet'. True to their work Klaxons return to the fray with a three-song encore, the speaker shredding, climactic 'Four Horsemen of 2012' ensuring any remaining doubters are trampled underfoot.

Indie Rave I don't know what you are, but I like you.

Francis Jones