I may take on assignments that take me all over metal’s glorious multi-verse of genres, but my home will always be the scuzzy outlier that is sleaze rock. Pretty Boy Floyd are an original 80s purveyor of the art form (despite there only being one original member left) and The Midnight Devils are upstart pretenders to the glam rock crown, so tonight I can breathe a sigh of relief and bask in the musical familiarity that surrounds me.

First though we have The Clan. Now I have nothing against The Clan, they are one of a handful of local bands who get to open at the Tiv on a regular basis, but I can’t help thinking they are a bit out of their depth on this particular bill. Their blend of Quo-inspired 70s pub rock is done well, but the small crowd here tonight are dismissively shaking their bandanaed heads and impatiently tapping their cowboy-booted toes. This rather plodding blues rock is not what they came here for!

The Clan carry regardless, and by the end of their set, they get quite a few appreciative claps and whistles. They just need to swap their waistcoats for scarves and throw in a bit more glitter and they’ll be grand next time!

The Midnight Devils on the other hand are something of a phenomenon. They blast onto the stage like a whirlwind and whisk the crowd along for the ride. We end up breathless, panting and dishevelled, which is just how the Devils like it. The drummer is Jimmy Mess, a looming beanpole of a man in a fetching leather skirt and hair that I’m still not convinced is his own. The guitarist is Sniper, an obvious Van Halen afficionado and apart from his ridiculously shiny pants, a rather normal bloke with a good face for guitar solos.

And then there is Sam. Out-jumping Roth, out-dancing Tyler, out-singing Vince and out-makeuping Kiss, Sam is the heartbeat of this band. He’s playing to 100 people on a cold and rainy Welsh Sunday, but the show is pure Sunset Strip. The Devils are loud, brash and fun. They are party with a capital P.

Two albums in and the Devils throw out green light-up devil horns and pink balloons, they shower us with 69-dollar notes like confetti and most importantly they just don’t stop moving. The set combines songs from both albums with a couple of covers (Van Halen’s ‘Panama’ and Loverboy’s ‘Working For The Weekend’ to be precise) and all are performed well and get us on our feet and dancing.

For the final song Sam comes out onto the floor, he has lasers on his hat, he abandons his bass to my tender care (!) whilst he balances precariously on a couple of stools then climbs up the PA stack to take photos and videos of the mayhem his band have created. It’s wild and crazy, and I enjoy every second of it.

After that, I wonder how on earth Pretty Boy Floyd can follow them? But Steve Summers still has a few aces up his sleeve. He is the only original member left of the band he founded in the mid-80s, indeed I suspect some of the current band members may not even have been born when the seminal album “Leather Boys With Electric Toys” was released in 1987. Sadly Pretty Boy Floyd never really managed to top the heady years following the release of their ground-breaking disc. The advent of grunge was just around the corner and the days of the pretty boy hair metal bands were already numbered.

Undeterred, Steve has continued to take his genial brand of big choruses around the world ever since. His current band have been carefully curated to fit the image – the guitarist looks like Johnny Thunders, the bass player looks like Tom Kiefer of Cinderella. They play well, and apart from his persistence the other thing Steve still has going for him is his voice.

Most of the set is drawn from “Leather Boys” and it’s performed flawlessly. The crowd scream and clap and punch the air, Steve shakes hands, fist-bumps and basks in the adoration of his crowd. And this is his crowd. We may be sparse but we are right there with him, Steve says he keeps his songwriting simple so we can all join in so that’s what we do. We sing back the choruses, we shake our hair and we savour every moment.

For some of us (OK, me!) this is nostalgia, for others in the room tonight seems to be an eye-opening experience, an epiphany even. THIS is what the 80s were all about. For those of us of a certain age our glory days may be behind us but we can still muster up some enthusiasm for a band as hard-working, as damn good as Pretty Bot Floyd.

After the show, Steve and the band refuse to leave until everything has been signed and everyone has had pictures, the sign of a true gentleman of rock. I tip my (cowboy) hat to you Mr Summers, you are a superb showman still and I had a grand night in your company.