Wednesday 23/07/03 Psychid @ Barfly, Liverpool

Pigeons are funny shapes ain't they? I mean considering they've got a hole named after them you'd think they'd come in a regular enough shape to satisfy every situation. Square holes are generally square and round ones, well, they're usually round, so it comes as no surprise then that Psychid would struggle with a pigeonhole because they're, erm, Psychid-shaped.

Beginning their set with wailing electronic strings, passing barflies are drawn to the stage much like drunken sailors to their deaths by sirens a lá Ye Olde Worlde Shyps Tayles. And just as they've got us all woozy and drugged up they hit us with some rocking, pumping rifferdelia. Ouch!

Onstage vocal duties are shared between two main men, one Jim Morrison and one be-capped Jimmy Sommerville who warble over various prog-rock backdrops for much of the set. That's when we can see them, as they've all come dressed in black and have lit the stage from behind with desk lamps. The set goes swimmingly well until finally, in an almost losing the plot way (in fact the main-men literally lose their shoes into the "crowd") we end up in a helium-voiced disco freak-out that would put Daniel Bedingfield's squeaky croons to shame. The audience shuffle uncomfortably and then it all ends, a crescendo of shite and hardly the lasting memory you'd want to inflict on anyone but your worstest of worstest enemies. It's hard to tell if this was a serious attempt at a song or a tear-gas-like crowd disperser to ward away a dwindling Wednesday night crowd.

Bearing many of the hallmarks of their Oxfordshire bretheren, Psychid are a pleasingly challenging band. OK they can stink to high heaven, but they certainly know how to tingle the spine with finely crafted electronica-laden supernatural refrains. More of a work in progress than a finished masterpiece Psychid and their many foibles and failures aren't something you should get all in one go, but instead they need coming back to and trying to figure out over a period of time.