The Blood Brothers

The Blood Brothers' second London gig in a week, following that Yeah Yeah Yeahs support, has the Underworld packed out. But is this punk rock, or something more sinister?

Where are we, exactly? At a dingy fleapit watching a hardcore punk band thrash their way through a back catalogue of ADD-styled ‘songs’ with lines like “Everybody needs a little devastation!” and “You don’t need a doctor honey, you need a mortician baby!”? Or are we at a Blue gig, at Wembley, replete with placard-waving pre-teen groupies? For a few seconds, I’m totally confused. In front of me there’s a girl sporting a freshly signed t-shirt. Seconds previous, I passed another star-struck girl presenting band members with covers to sign. Is this underground (literally) fandom gone mad, or are The Blood Brothers a boyband for the disaffected-but-highly-stylised punk rock ladies? Let’s investigate:

“Madam, may I ask you a question: who is your favourite Blood Brother?”

“I just LOVE Morgan. He’s so dreamy. I could eat him all up… like an ice cream!”

“Okay, thanks. And you?”

“Cody is my favourite. The way he just doesn’t give a fuck, and looks so cool, and plays guitar real good… I have posters of him all over my wall, above my bed and everything. My boyfriend doesn’t like it too much.”

I bet he does. I bet he loves it when he’s banging you against said wall whilst your head’s full of Cody Votolato’s upturned collar. But f*ck it ‘cause the man rocks. As does Morgan and the other Brothers of Blood. Be they a bedraggled punk rock boyband or not, they know how to turn up the mosh with a flick of a key. Cue: ‘Burn Piano Island Burn’ Cue: utter fucking centre-stage madness. Stood at the back I feel like a man twice my age – I should be in there with the kids, with the girls fawning over the tight-tee’ed boys throwing teapot and cup and saucer shapes on stage. I should be wearing a t-shirt proclaiming my adoration for Morgan, his huge barnet and ace face-pulling skills. I do love him. I love all of them. I should be doing so much more that standing, static, by a mixing desk cradling a half-pint of pee-flavoured continental lager. I should be losing myself in the moment.

But the moment’s now owned by The Kids. Some seven years since their inception, Seattle’s greatest rock export since oh-you-know are standing on the edge of The Big Time. Below lies the void, into which they could tumble should their current album, Crimes, fail to commercially match its critical adoration. A single, ‘Love Rhymes With Hideous Car Wreck’, scheduled for February, will be the barometer by which such success is measured. If all goes their way, they’ll soar over the blackness and into the hearts of even more fanatical girls. Can't blame 'em, though – them's some pretty boys.

Of course, should they falter, they’ll be all ours again. A part of me wants them back, but – like your mother didn’t say – if you truly love someone, set them free…