The Rakes

Close your eyes and count to ten and you could almost be forgiven for thinking it's 1979. Thatcher has just ordered the removal wagon to cart her stuff off to number 10 and Sid Vicious has just topped himself and killed off the last remaining dregs of punk rock with it.

Or so you thought.

On first impressions Canterbury-via-London quartet Battle could be The Cure circa 'Three Imaginary Boys'. Singer Jason Bavanandan hits all the right notes on 'Isabelle', who could be Charlotte of Robert Smith's '...Sometimes' fame's daughter, while 'Tendency' is equal parts despondancy and joy in a Paul Banks-meets-Ricky Wilson kind of way. Top marks too for drummer Olly Davies, whose right arm stays vertically prone throughout every song until it crashes down in a crescendo of hi-hat and cymbals to signal the end of a particular song.

If the kids were united, they'd sure as hell love Vatican DC. If ever a band's looks could be deceiving as to what you would be about to hear, these could be the masters. Singer Irish Steve is skinnier than Kate Moss' index finger while the band's exquisitely smart attire would make them 2-1 odds on favourites to sound like another Franz/'Pol/Chiefs hybrid.

Not so, it seems. Instead we have songtitles like 'Antisocial' and 'Say Nothing At All' that Jimmy Pursey would have been proud of 25 years ago. Their terrace chanting "oi!oi!oi!" regimental punk rock actually sounds exhilerating and fresh, particularly when one song is dedicated to the "shittiness of the London music scene".

Not that Alan Donohoe could give a toss about music scenes. When he asks if the "Jack'n'Jills in this city are alright" whilst staring mad eyed like some startled, carrot deprived rabbit, you know that the next 45 minutes are going to be like the most amazing rollercoaster ride you've ever been on. Scary, breathtaking, engaging, unforgettable.

For The Rakes this is the second date of their biggest nationwide headline tour to date, not that you'd notice judging by the way Donohue and co. pound through their repertoire like seasoned pros.

'Terror!' is an astounding skank through Madness' tune library via Hooky's bass bins, whilst 'Dark Clouds' is a renegade of post-punk rhythms, one minute tongue-twistingly articulate like prime time Public Image Ltd and the next a haze of Wire-like buzzsaw over a throbbing backbeat.

In a set littered with highlights, it would be difficult to pick one out although the Allemanianglais vocal interaction between Donohoe and guitarist Matt Swinnerton on 'Auslandmission' and the immortal line "if work only knew, what I got up to, at the weekend"_ pretty much sum up The Rakes' almost schizophrenic personas.

Put simply, if there is a better live band in the UK at this moment in time I've yet to see them. If I were a betting man, my money would be on The Rakes to be the next darlings of the indie underground to reach the higher echelons of Wes Butters' big countdown.

Rakes photographs courtesy of Mark Moore