Gig played on 15/10/05

There's a very good reason why Franz Ferdinand sagely hand-picked The Rakes as support on their tour of European Big Mac arenas. Why they also decided to put Editors above them on the bill is, however, not so obvious, given that reality here tonight. It's dead-on 7.30pm, with much of the crowd still attempting to force a truncheon-sized hot dog down their lucky throats, that 2005's finest rock'n'roll discoveries emerge.

Ok, so Arctic Monkeys are showing some wild potential and The Arcade Fire don't count because they're playing on Mars. No, our band of the year is The Rakes, who've taken that urgent art-punk blueprint and inserted our aforementioned hot dog into London's paranoid, self-satisfied arse. Laced with a squirt of semtax, the UK capital has gone up like white phosperous over a binge drunk Square Mile on a Friday night. But it's surely asking too much for the same sonic vandalism here?

Well, these sharp and clever tales of the full-body implosion found in a day at the office too far or a midweek pill that wasn't for a headache, are universal. Bltzed at a sparse and young crowd, they speak of the realisation as you leave university, armed with a media degree, that your best days are actually behind, not ahead. The Rakes say only rock'n'roll will save you. It seems The Kids of Brighton hear that message loud and clear tonight, through a faceful of sausage.

Frankly, these are not the kind of thoughts conjured up by Editors. However, they have rightly turned some heads in 2005, as a mini-zerox of Interpol's more sinister mini-zerox of Joy Division. In guitarist Chris Urbanowicz, the band have a talismanic force, at once conjuring the dive-bombing riffs of "Blood", the next the clanging fall-out of "Sparks", all the while carrying the devilish, aloof and mercurial spectre of Brian Jones. Dark and doom-laden, Editors are at times a serious proposition, but one clearly lacking the inebriated charm and intelligence of The Rakes.

Of course, there's a reason why Franz Ferdinand are now playing to the biggest crowds of their lives. Tonight we witness three very obvious ones, beyond the band's iconic, monochrome dash and their ability to seemingly wander around the stage independently, before leaping at us like banzai rock loons, armed with another blinding charge of music. In short, with the seismic hat-trick of "Take Me Out", "Darts Of Pleasure" and "Do You Wanna", Franz Ferdinand have three absolute modern classics.

Elsewhere, it also becomes crystal clear why the band use a drum riser - so they can leap off it, like proper rock stars - and why they're always captured in black and white and stalked by strobes and spotlights - because it makes them look like proper rock stars. At the close, as Franz are introduced by Alex Kapranos as if they'd just performed a Broadway musical, it also becomes obvious why bass player Bob Hardy is never allowed to speak - because when he does, he sounds very much unlike a rock star.

Still, we have few complaints. After all, who would you rather was leading the UK's rock'n'roll charge than Franz Ferdinand? Babyshambles? Oasis?? Don't be silly. Ok, how about The Rakes?

by Ben Gilbert