Saturday 09/12/06 The View, Ripchord, The Draytones, The Veras @ Zanzibar, Liverpool

Tinsel wrapped amps, baubles hung with military precision and strings of coloured fairy lights adorn the Zanzibar tonight. Christmas is drawing ever closer, and determined to poke us into the mood are Liverpool foursome, The Veras. They’ve partnered their Your Racket Club night with James Eandeacott’s 1965 Records and laid on a musical spread.

The hosts of the night take to the stage first. Crested with a smattering of Santa hats and propelled by the adrenaline of event organising, The Veras swiftly spunk their brand of indie-rock. Prickly, yet smooth and tight from hours well-spent in the practice room, they kick-start the party with a sizeable blob of panache. Final song of the set, 'Take Your Time', spanks the audience warmly like an old chum. A boyish camaraderie ricochets singing duty between lead vocalist Nathan Crowley and guitarist Paul Vibert, while cheeky guitar and bouncy drumming enflame the audience.

A sea of retro frocks, flowing locks and polo shirts slink towards the stage for 1965 Records’ first offering of the night, The Draytones. Presenting themselves with a jungle drumming, the trio proceed to charm the Zanzibar with a set of coiled, effervescent energy. Equal parts Kinks and oily man-about-town, George Formby, the London-based trio roll out a blanket of breezy bass-lines and pert guitar flourishes intersected kitsch vocals. Infinitely easy on the ear, and hip-wrigglingly good.

Ripchord fare don’t fare as well as their label stable-mates. Despite a string of high-profile support acts, the Wolverhampton foursome feel hackneyed. Flashes of a Happy Days-esque allure are stifled in what is rapidly becoming a sardine-tin of a venue, and it’s simply not their night. Sounding camp rather than ferocious, Ripchord can’t build on the Draytones’ momentum.

It seems like an age for 65 Records’ crowning glory to get on the stage. The crowd turn from expectant meerkats to a seething throng of sweat and tension, a plug adapter frees itself from the rafters and thuds onto someone’s head and the Zanzibar threatens anarchy. Not a moment too soon, the headliners stalk on to the stage. A tubby man in a pink t-shirt scrambles onto a table, commencing to quake like a blancmange, and James Eandeacott squeals in excitement, joining in with the now obligatory chant of “The View, The View, The View are on fire.” The View are bumptious, deluded and clearly in a class of their own this evening. ‘Wasted Little DJs’ sounds as fresh as it did in the summer, and the crowd wildly show their appreciation.

Yes The View sound like The Libertines, but it doesn’t matter tonight. Seething choruses are cooled with stuttering, staccato asides. Arrogance is muddled with a juvenile innocence, and we see why the Scottish upstarts are the gem in Eandeacott's crown.