The Rocks

Bunch of posers or authentic cool? Hmm. The Rocks are a difficult bunch to work out. Frontman James Rocks (presumably not his real surname) is, it must be said, a bit of a mentalist onstage, seemingly spending as much time off it than on. One other thing is f’sure – they can turn punk rock fury into genuine anthems, with tunes an’ all.

James knows this. In fact, he mentions it at every given opportunity, like he’s documenting every review they’ve ever had inbetween each song. It’s a little weird. One minute I want to shake his hand, the other I want to smack him in the mouth. But this is how I like my frontmen – mouthy, arrogant show-offs not adverse to showing their sensitive side when the mood takes it. Amusingly (well, sort of), making me like this band even more, Chris has his leg in a plaster: being sick of telling everyone what happened, he’s printed business cards saying “I fell off a wall. Yes, it does hurt.”

Anyway, fuck art – let’s dance. Tonight Celeste is a huge singalong indie classic, the floor is bouncing (literally), absolutely littered with crap and sweat, and I’m grinning like an idiot. And the venue is hot. VERY hot, full of bodies. Ugh. James just encourages the hotness, eventually throwing himself onto the throng, successfully being carried from one end of the venue to the bar and back again, like he’s some kind of returning war hero.

This kind of behaviour should only be encouraged. Most London bands are content just playing London, being stuck in an insular scene. The Rocks are not one of those bands. The evidence tonight proves that The Rocks will find it a piece off piss to break out of the city and into the mainstream.

Their time cometh. You have been warned.