Scary Chicago pair Puerto Muerto, have been invited to ply their wares a little later tonight in an Art and Design Students' Union as pallid and unadorned as a working men's club. But for now, and continuing the flat cap and bingo vibe, John Barnes sits perched on the packing-box stage at a small dining table, and stares intently at his monitor while coaxing out an amazing array of sounds. Orchestra and choir rise from nowhere to pivot on whomping beats. Each slice varies only mildly from another but it all comes together in the end, like some great opus by a transcendental Squarepusher.

With acoustic guitar for company, a solo David Hurn breaks the ice with an almost-whispered 'Wait To Forget', but there is so much bar-room clamour around him that his velvet voice is all but drowned out. He manages to grab a bit more attention when joined by guitars, bass, lap steel and electric, but no drums, for the rest of the set.

The lap steel guitar's occasional twang hints at a UK band with a country fixation but they turn into nothing as obvious as that, with edges rounded - subdued even. Again a little later, what seems to be heading for some aching Hank Williams blues, becomes muted through translation. So what we have is a form of Anglicised Americana that's not as overly raw and emotional as traditional cowboy fodder. Influences have been tempered by a home-grown ballad tradition that reflects, rather than emulates, a different edge to the usual Stateside rock-and- roll that's been absorbed on this side of the pond for decades. There's a confident fragility at work here that has an easy to miss dark side that surfaces especially in the yearning 'Don't Have To Live'. When all's done, it seems the noisy crowd were listening after all as applause is warm and long.

Talking of America, Puerto Muerto are surprisingly European in their ways. 'Your Bloated Corpse Has Washed Ashore', their wonderfully named album, is as weird as fuck so what the hell are they gonna be like in the flesh?

In house-wifey black shirt and white kecks, Christa Meya manhandles a floor tom onto stage with husband Tim Kelley, as skinny as a beat poet, stalking behind her. White Stripes they ain't. Contrasting the feel good couple, she casts wild eyes around the room before starting to mercilessly beat her single drum. On disc, her cultured voice is Doris Day on poppers but in this mingy little room, her power and presence make for some real Polly Jean moments.

Their weirdy concept album has vignettes of soldiers, whore houses and ribald drunkenness running though it like veins in a strong blue cheese. Its highlight is 'San Pedro' and tonight, Crista's voice rises in a terrifying intensity as she slips into the same realm as Galadriel under the One Ring's influence. The room is under her spell. She's only a little thing but hell, the power she wields!

With one guitar, one drum and ocassionally shared vocals their songs are not especially hot but as performance art, this pair are amazing.