The Organ

When The Rifles come onstage to a mix of shrugged shoulders and nonchalant, can’t-be-arsed stares, the band members themselves could be forgiven for thinking “Fuck it! Let’s just go through the motions and get the hell outta here!”

Fortunately, that isn’t part of The Rifles’ make-up, as the twin guitar assault of Luke Crowther and Joel Sadler rip into the set like there’s no tomorrow, all foot moves pinched from the bibliography of Wigan Casino, and looking like extras from ‘Quadraphenia’. It’s no surprise then that they’ve already been compared to the early, punkier beginnings of The Jam, with Sadler’s Slough-via-Thames link drawl sounding not unlike a young Paul Weller or indeed Dennis Greaves of Secret Affair fame.

What makes them stand out from the crowd though – and particularly similar acolytes like The Ordinary Boys, is the fact that they’ve concentrated more on getting the songs right rather than milking their image, and when you’ve Saturday afternoon terrace chants such as ‘Peace And Quiet’ or Interpol decamp to Berkshire for a week splendour of ‘When I’m Alone’ up your sleeve, it’s hard to see where The Rifles could fail. Even the stylishly bored at the front have woken from their slumber by the end, and the band leave the stage with Cheshire cat wide grins plastered across their faces. Job’s a good ‘un.

For The Organ it feels like a kind of homecoming, which is all the more bizarre bearing in mind they originate from the Canadian outback of Vancouver. Girls get in for free tonight, and there are plenty of them here, lined up politely across the Social dancefloor to see latest spokesperson for the despairing and lonely Katie Sketch. As front people go, Sketch is probably one of the least obvious candidates, her skinny frame and painfully shy demeanour more than a million miles away from the collective solace administered through her songs.

Likewise, the cold blank stares of guitarist Deborah Cohen and keyboard player Jenny Smyth prove to be as haunting as the band’s music, a sort of “Don’t come any closer!” warning to anyone wanting to encroach their space on the tiny stage.

In a parallel universe, close your eyes and you could imagine Debbie Harry fronting The Smiths when the poignant ‘Sinking Hearts’ kicks in, while the pulsating ‘Brother’ proves to be the first communal sing-song of the evening, it’s “We have got to take cover…” hookline resonating around the venue and Lace Market tram stop long after the Social’s doors have been locked for the evening.

With a multitude of tunes and a persona entirely of their own, The Organ are the anti-charisma, never-been-to-stage-school band your parents warned you about. And that’s why we love them so much.

Being miserable never sounded so engagingly beautiful.