Wednesday 07/12/05 The Cribs, The Chalets, Help! She Can’t Swim @ Mean Fiddler, London

The scattering of boos that greet Help She Can’t Swim’s co-vocalist Lisa Francais when she introduces a track about “being a feminist” hint that the majority of supposedly liberal-minded fans of guitar music in all its guises still aren’t ready for anything more challenging than the odd self-consciously oblique Bloc Party lyric. Not that Help She Can’t Swim would care. Scathing of everything from bandwagon-****ing garage rock to gender stereotyping (“Girls like pink/Boys like blue”) with the brutality of hardcore nursery rhyme, they are a discordant, shrieking, sporadically fantastic band, with a heart of sarcasm and a record collection consisting of nothing but Blood Brothers b-sides. Those looking to explore this anarchism further would do well to seek out last year’s ‘Fashionista Super Dance Troupe’.

However, those left bored and cold quickly find solace in “Irish pop chancers” The Chalets. Formed after a shared weekend at All Tomorrow’s Parties, the five-piece remind us of the likes of The Pipettes and The Hot Puppies because a) without the wonderfully named main female vocalists Pony and Peepee there wouldn’t be any sensuality or spark, and therefore very little point to the band, and b) amateurish synchronised dancing will always be endearingly cool. Live the Belle And Sebastian-alike touches of their debut album ‘Check In’ are discarded in favour of louder guitars and a neat line in audience flirtation (er, if “I would like to **** you all up the arse” could be considered flirtatious). Standout ‘No Style’ sounds like The Magic Numbers caught in an explosion at a vintage clothes warehouse, and by the time wonky-keyboard closer ‘Love Punch’ comes around, pockets of people dancing like Alan out of The Rakes can be seen all over.

Why The Cribs aren’t yet a nation-bothering fully-blown rock and roll phenomenon is a question that could keep anyone awake all night that truly cares about the life-affirming, chaotically brilliant qualities of music. The line between hipster-baiting and self-parody may be perilously thin but The Cribs walk it no trouble, hilarious in their sneering and seemingly effortless in their tuneful genius, helped no doubt by the fact that most people here tonight actually look as though they heard ‘Hey Scenesters!’ and thought it was about them. Opening with ‘Mirror Kisses’, over the next hour the three Jarman brothers seem intent on teaching a lesson as to what can be achieved by listening to Pavement and The Ramones, having disdain for the fakers around you, scratchy feedback, copious beer bottles and, in the case of Ross, crouching on your drum stool and hammering away as if a particularly annoying rat refuses to die. Girls cling to the mixing desk grill to get a better look, Ryan is shirtless by third song ‘I’m Alright Me’, everyone sings the guitar part to ‘Another Number’; of course The Cribs don’t need to headline Wembley to be recognised as utterly essential. It’s just how the hell can a band with the anthems Oasis can only ever dream of writing again (new single ‘You’re Gonna Lose Us’ a case in point), the poignancy of The Libertines in their prime and the lyrical wit of a scuzz-pop Morrissey not be the biggest thing ever? Their mum must be so proud.

Photos by: Linda Chasteau