Monday 02/12/02 Babylose, Chione, Harry @ Barfly, Liverpool

Forrest Gump was talking shit when he said life was like a box of chocolates. It's not. Everyone knows what you get in a packet of Roses, and if you really can't remember there are pictures on the lid to remind you. What Forrest was trying to say was that life has a wonderful habit of throwing crap at you that you're not expecting. And in that respect it's exactly like last Monday night's line-up at the Barfly.

It's not all bad news though. First on are four topless Welshmen called Babylose, two of whom are carrying battered telecasters with the clear intention of battering them some more. Opening salvo 'Out of Love' sets an unforgiving pace which the two guitarist/singers clearly relish as they take it in turns to spit out lyrics over a barrage of staccato fuzz. One of the front men does an impression of a young Joe Strummer with ADD as he leaves the stage to greet some latecomers during the Fugazi-esque 'Money Finger'. Within the next ten minutes the band's backdrop has been shaken off the wall, a doll's head has been kicked into the audience, and a song called 'Strawberry Flavoured Death' has been performed to a generous display of spasmodic gyrations and facial contortion. It's hard to tell if Babylose are taking themselves seriously as they blur the line between novelty and class act, but as they play people listen, and that's got to be a good sign.

With the gauntlet thrown well and truly down, Chione enter stage left and trip right over it. A collection of silk shirts, black pants, shiny shoes, and party dresses is unveiled as the eight-strong outfit potter infuriatingly around the stage, tuning up the kind of flashy guitars that were last seen being used by Tina Turner's backing band. I'm desperately trying not to hate them before they start playing, but it's so hard, and then vindication comes in the shape of their opening tune. Planted firmly in the middle of the road, Chione play the kind of adult-orientated pop that makes the Lighthouse Family sound edgy. Three backing singers are on hand to verify the female lead's standard declarations of love and heartbreak, while the guitarists trade licks that could once have earned them hero status. If Chione turned out to be a Christian band I'd hold my hands up and say fair enough, but I seriously doubt that God would be as forgiving.

And so the scene is set for Harry to storm the stage, rock the Barfly and save the night - and they look like they could do it. Harry is in fact a girl, a tall peroxide blonde who arrives enthusiastically wearing what appears to be a white tutu with a black jacket and tie. As the three-man band behind her kick out the first tune of a suspiciously slick sounding set I begin to notice the startling resemblance she bears to that other blonde Harry, Deborah. My God it's Blondie! But it's not. It's just someone pretending to be her, singing along to a collection of indistinguishable industrial rock dirges that sit somewhere between the theme tune to The Lost Boys and a Garbage album. Meanwhile, backing tracks full of generic synth whines and ghastly hi-hats provide a crutch for a set of songs that can't stand up on its own.

Thoroughly disappointing.