The groove has gone.  It’s been a month, a long time in rock and roll.  Friends have fell out, families argued, jobs have changed and life has stamped it’s leaden boot over everyone.  The countdown begins, a tradition that might cut short this escape one day.  Johann is agitated, tense probably hungry. There’s a rasp in my voice, I’m lethargic from doing fuck all, all day, every day. I can feel Hyde’s shadow creeping through the axons. I want the bands to be terrible, I want the pressure in my head to burst out of my hands and evaporate the keyboard.  It’s at this point Johann points out we have fifty miles in the tank and the coolant is leaking out, but he has a 16 seater death wagon somewhere, lurking in our near future. 

Gorilla is another boheme in the ever upscaling Deansgate area of Manchester. You could quite easily spunk a weeks wages here and still be fumbling around for taxi change and hoping a bag of plecs will act as a makeweight.   The room is a box, like all small venues, the bar is at the back and there is an oversized shelf called the balcony where a handful of brave patrons sit uncomfortably.  We are as ever really fucking early, surprisingly though it’s busy.  It occurs to me we might be jaded, we are stood in the midst of the crowd who are as crowds are prone to do, staring straight at the stage.  We on the other hand are stood juxtaposed, angular to the throng, chatting, catching up, gossiping like a pair of fish wives waiting for trawler boats.  The back of the stage is a collection of power unit doors polished and adapted.  The stage looks great, I instinctively know this box has good sound. 

A throng of school leavers have caught wind of the frenchman’s accent and with as little subtlety as they can muster bombard him with a cross pollination of questions and statements.  He’s trying hard to remain cool but this absurd situation has all the style of a community college lecture. They assure us the band is amazing. I back off, the canine in me can’t handle this much pitch and it’s escalating as the bands appearance draws nearer. I move to the bar area and position myself just out of the way of the thoroughfare.  The Second Sons appear and despite nearly throwing in the towel, we are back in the saddle and riding a glitter pony all the way to the finish line.

The Second Sons have a look of a boy who got dressed in the seventies and ran along a clothesline of time stealing the odd item off whatever was the thing at the time.  There is a dash of punk, a smudge of metal and a dazzling bouquet of glam. They have a vibe, there is a hint of The Rolling Stones, maybe in looks alone. There is a beige telecaster and striped pants. The music though has a nineties indie vibe, the fun nineties indie though. It’s smarter than that, with choppy nineties indie chords running alongside a healthy nostalgia for the blues. The venue has started to get cosy as people pour in.  We are three songs in and it’s starting to get warm. The singer is as close to a Jagger clone as I’ve seen. His voice is decent but the first few songs blend a little.  The guitarist of beige telecaster is channelling as much Robin Askwith as confessedly possible.  They pout and swagger, the Hyde in me starts to think of TOTP2, I long hoped for the demise of top of the pops.  The recollection warms me, it’s much harder to stay relevant without the help of state supported pop vehicles, all too keen to lend a platform to Cowell, Wash and Watermans brand of husk rattling shite. I snap out of my thoughts mid-stream, I’m snapped out rather.  The Second Sons are part way through their finale, I don’t catch the name but the melody is strong, the singer has the crowd warmed.  The final song is anthemic and I’m drawn to clap, hands over head, in time.  I check the watch, Johann has meandered back over too me.  Half an hour, just over, wow such a short set.  Gorilla wants the shop shut as close to 10:30 as possible.  The Seconds Sons bid farewell.  A solid support act, not likely to steal the show yet but capable and good enough to get the crowd cheering and dancing.

There’s little room, a respectful gap at the bar is all that is left.  As demographics go The Struts record label should be rubbing their hands.  Under 20’s in the main. Students, independent income, no bills.  They account for three quarters of the throng.  The rest are largely made up of over fifties, drawn by the glam throwback and Mercuryesque mannerisms of the singer Luke Spiller.  They too however have money to spend.   A middle-aged couple accost me, again reassure me that The Struts are the real thing.  They are genuinely excited and there really is an electricity in the air.  A siren wails abruptly and causes pandemonium.  The bassist appears to another roar, as does the drummer and guitarist, then as the song jumps into life Luke Spiller runs from side of stage straight into the opening verse of “Put your hands up”, with undertones of The Killers, you know immediately you are in safe hands.  There is enough gaunt, overbite to warrant comparisons to Mercury but Spiller’s voice is his own, a very British rasp. He is however effortlessly confident, a definite and without question shooting star. He is in his prime, young enough too handle the excess and smart enough to work hard on his stage performance.  When you practise something enough you learn to improvise, it begins to look to others like new. He has a wide range of crowd control, waving clapping, call and response. He’s funny, the interludes with other bands can seem awkward and short. Their songs in the main are punchy, jumpy melodic pop rock masterpieces. There is no delusion of grandeur, this is a good fucking time, dancing, laughing and getting drunk music. This is rock and roll with all its objectification, sang with the twinkle of a back chalet shag from a Pontins cover band, but delivered with the poise and arena melody of fuck-off big rock band. They have so many songs, the crowd have joined in on every tune. The first single form the new album is called “Body Talk”, the video like with most small bands is being shot from a hodge podge of live shows and backstage footage.  Body talk is, a slinky indie, hip shaker.  It defies there 70’s demeanour and is definitively them and no one else. 

They throw in a few covers, “Dancing In The Dark“ and “Rebel, Rebel”.  There has clearly been a lot of thought gone into the first cover.  It is executed immaculately, it slips into the set like one of their own.  When bands commit to a cover live it can be a useful barometer of how effective their own songs are.  The quality only gets better, the melodies are equal in musical hysteresis as any other.  They bring out Tim Ogden and Josh Dewhurst of The Blossoms for the cover of “Rebel, Rebel”.  It’s unfair to judge an incomplete band making a short appearance, but if they served to emphasise the divide in styles between the bands it was a job well done. The blossoms duo looked uncomfortable, sullen, as mancunian as is humanly possible before sticking a rose down your arse. The Struts ended the show with two stand out anthems “It Could Have Been Me” and “Where Did She Go”.  The crowd was rapturous, all Spiller's instructions were followed and an actual night of magic was had. At one point the whole crowd was sat on the floor, the song pulsed and pulsed to Spiller's countdown and on cue the place jumped to life. The hairs on my arms raised, he is electric. 

I cannot emphasise strongly enough how good The Struts are live.  I urge you to go and see them. The Struts are supporting the Foo Fighters (agJe ain) on their US leg of their world tour.  The groove has well and truly found the Rockflesh needle, and its belting out pop rock anthems at a little over excited and completely under prepared.