Gigwise knows a boy called Roy, well heâ€™s more a man actually â€“ Roy Cropper â€“ the proprietor of â€˜Royâ€™s Rollsâ€™ on Coronation Street and husband of one time bloke, Hailey Patterson. As we wait for fledgling Sheffield band, â€˜A Boy Called Royâ€™ to take to the stage, Gigwise wonders excitedly if the legendary Roy Cropper himself may be fronting the group. So itâ€™s not without a little disappointment, then, that when four lads arrive to limber up, their front man isnâ€™t the anorak sheathed roll-maker himself but a young whipper snapper - who isnâ€™t even called Roy. However, the lack of Cropper is but a minor setback when A Boy Called Roy, albeit it somewhat nervously, launch into their own brand of upbeat punk-pop. The bandâ€™s cheery young frontman apologetically explains in a rather camp Mark Owen gurgle that he 's only recently taken on the role of singer after the untimely departure of their last vocalist. But luckily for the steadily bulging crowd, this provides no hindrance, as the frontman pleasingly and somewhat surprisingly drawls his way through a tight set of upbeat, catchy numbers that accompany his infectious and impossibly wide grin. It's a smile so ample that the guyâ€™s head looks like a honeydew melon with a segment hacked out of it. The band may be rather nervous, but the chemistry between them is palpable, their dynamics satisfying and the set is peppered with carefully thought out touches. The Gigwise new-talent feelers are out - and quivering excitedly.
â€œI wonder if theyâ€™ll be hard to photo?â€ frets our photographer worriedly looking at her camera while waiting for next band, the newly TVT signed Liverpool-based, A Cult Called Karrianna to launch their aural attack. She neednâ€™t have worried. Lead singer, Paul Roughsedge postures and swaggers so much in front of the lens that Gigwise is half expecting him to peel off his leather jacket, toss it over one shoulder and take a cheeky catwalk turn about the stage.
These arenâ€™t human beings, but musical demons awakened from the dead to combat dull guitar dirge â€“ and wear some nifty threads while they do it. Ryan Heath, eyes smudged with blue shadow and jet black hair trailing to his ribs, fits violently over his guitar while intermittently flashing the crowd looks of bleary-eyed fury. Roughsedge preens, struts and thrusts along the front-line like a rooster looking for a hen to violate, before dirtily clinching and claiming the mic. Admittedly he has a haircut befitting a mousey bespectacled librarian called Susan or similar, but bonce aside, his rock-star credentials are all in place - as are his jeans, so tight they seem to have been sprayed on. ACCK fling their snarling electronic rock around the venue like a demented artist hurling paint at a canvas. Roughsedgeâ€™s tambourine quivers and hisses like a rattlesnake, his voice growls and barks like a rabid dog and Boz smatters the whole with synths. Steve McQueen works at his bass with quiet concentration, finding time to carefully remove a stray shocking blonde hair from his guitar strap. As the attack draws to a close Paul then Ryan launch themselves into the crowd, sweat flies, an annoying girl gets booted in the head and the punters cheer in sated awe, wondering what the hell theyâ€™ve done to deserve this venom.
Photos By Ellie Pain