Stellastarr*

The theme for the day has to be Beauty and the Bassline. Literally, whether that be of the four-stringed variety as displayed lavishly here by both Mary-Charlotte Cooper and Amanda Tannen, or a few hours earlier on the Centre Court at Wimbledon by Maria Sharapova.

For a band still in their breastfeeding and diapers stage, The Subways have acquired a substantial amount of attention for themselves, most of it courtesy of Michael Eavis. Nevertheless, the flurry of activity created by numerous lank-haired boys at the front of the stage is undoubtedly reserved for the aforementioned bass player Miss Cooper, whose mousey hair and demure figure resemble a gymslip Amanda Holden.

Musically, The Subways' heart lies in Detroit – geographically a tad difficult when you live in Welwyn Garden City – and their pop-goes-rock-in-the-garage stomp is eerily reminiscent of the Von Bondies, something that is enforced time and time again throughout the set by Cooper and singing guitarist Billy Lunn’s incandescent harmonies.

By the time they get to ‘Rock ’n’ Roll Queen’ though, their sheer enthusiasm seems to have won a place in everyone’s hearts. Or maybe that was just the boys at the front trying to get a closer look at their new bass goddess’ skinny fit t-shirt?

Why Stellastarr* aren’t experiencing a similar level of success to that of artists like Keane remains something of a mystery. Last year’s eponymous debut album set the scene for the likes of The Stills and The Killers to reinvent nostalgic Eighties cheese as something cool and creative, while their live show is... about as rare as David Beckham hitting the back of the net from 12 yards, as it happens.

Which makes it a little strange that the band are actually using tonight’s show as a trial run for the embryonic stages of their second long player – odd because unless you live within the confines of the M25 you probably won’t have seen them tour the first one!

Frontman Shawn Christensen looks for all the world like Hollyoaks’ tormented chef Tony Hutchinson, but the way he delivers the resounding finale to ‘In The Walls’ resurrects the spirit of David Byrne circa ’76, all heartbeat poetry sans fluster, his band encasing his heinous tones in a Smith-ian casket of Cure-ious reverb and panache.

In fact, Stellastarr*’s pre-emptive obsession with ‘Disintegration’ provides alternative entertainment as “guess the intro” sees ‘Pictures Of You’ become ‘My Coco’ and ‘Love Song’ merge into 'Jenny', all the time noticing guitarist Michael Jurin’s bird’s nest hairdo flail with every top-stringed crescendo.

As with the first band though, all (male) eyes appear to be focused stage right at the voluptuous presence of Amanda Tannen, cooing like Kim Deal as ‘No Weather’ bumps and grinds into a rapturous ‘Moon Girl’. She sways a bit, drops her shoulders now and then, but boy, THAT POUT.

Most of the new songs pass me by as the momentous adulation at finally seeing Stellastarr* live starts to kick in, but the brooding throb of ‘Angela’ is definitely up there with anything they’ve recorded to date, a fitting sequel to ‘Jenny’’s sinister meandering or a cousin in sound to ‘Somewhere Across Forever’’s Frank’n’Kim squall.

When Stellastarr* finally depart to a momentous ‘Pulp Song’, someone at the side of me wets herself unapologetically. Well I suppose its not every year that you see so many American bands get it right for once, and after a wait that long, a trip to the toilet seems almost elementary in comparison.