Its early doors as Mo Solid Gold take the stage and the sweat-pit that is the Astoria 2 is barely half full. Ask them if they care however and the answer would surely be a resounding no, for they are, without doubt men on a mission. A curious bunch of pasty white punk cast offs fronted by the male equivalent of Skunk Anansie's Skin, they proceed to blast through a woefully short support set as though they are in search of rock 'n' roll's Holy Grail.
Evangelical, committed and determined to liven up the few souls who have taken the decision to enter at such an early stage, they blast through a set of fuzzy, scuzzy, firebrand punk funk as though their lives depended on it. Sprinkled with fag ash and haunted by the ghost of the Stooges their tales of sleazy sex and late nights, underpinned by Hammond organ grooves and age-old riffs are the perfect sound to get you in the mood. All scissor kicks and snarls, staring the front row right between the eyes, what this lot lack in subtlety they certainly make up for in pure unadulterated adrenaline. Put it this way they are so tight if you shoved a lump of coal up their collective behind at the start of the show, by the end you'd have a fairly small and incredibly rough diamond.
As they make their exit the venue is suddenly packed to the hilt to await the arrival of the main attraction, a band whose members boast man mountain bass aficionado Chris Chew and Luther and Cody Dickinson, sons of legendary musician and producer Jim Dickinson.
With such a pedigree the offspring of the man who produced Big Star and Ry Cooder, and played alongside the Stones and Bob Dylan to name but a few, have attracted a capacity crowd which feature the ex-Creation allstars. The brothers Gallagher with Gem Archer, Bernard Butler and Bobby Gillespie have all dragged themselves out on a freezing Wednesday night for a dose of Mississippi magic.
And magic it is up to a point. For sure they exude the kind of deep, warm Southern authenticity that Gomez and their ilk would sell their grandmothers for but over exposure to their extended jams and drawn out guitar heroics begin to lose their initial promise after a short time. Not much to look at they certainly know how to transport a gathering to their home land with a sense of charm and rapture but every time they seem to hit on a groove with their powerhouse rhythm section yet another over long guitar solo rears its ugly head.
Despite a touch of ZZ Top-esque riffing and an endless supply of ready enthusiasm they are a stark contrast to MSG. A tall glass of smooth-sipping Bourbon on a long summer night compared to the latter's cheap, amphetamine based four in the morning blast. And depending on your poison either may well have what it takes to tickle your fancy.
IMAGES: DEBBIE SMYTH
