The Rakes

What a difference twelve months can make. This time last year in Sheffield, a relatively unknown Rakes gave an average performance in front of a distinctly nonplussed audience. Not many tunes, not enough bravado. Even Alan Donahoe's jokes fell flat.

Tonight, things are different from the outset. A busy venue, a partisan crowd and, far more importantly, a band with enough vigour to keep them dancing for a solid hour. Normally reserved Oxford student types find themselves at the front, drenched in sweat, with manic grins spread across their faces. “This one's for all you people who have to get up tomorrow. I don't,” deadpans Donohoe.

He may not have to get up_ tomorrow but, thanks to an incessant Rakes rhythm section, we all get down tonight. This is what punk-funk should be: alienated enough to shake your fist to, danceable enough to, err, dance to. Jamie Hornsmith, a _“fat bastard” according to Donahoe, rumbles out floor-shaking basslines which drummer Lasse Petersen supplements with some energetic stick-work. Together, they are the Rakes' unsung heroes.

Donahoe and guitarist Matthew Swinnerton, who usually end up with the plaudits, play their parts too; Swinnerton with some driving riffs and an air of nonchalant cool and Donahoe with his unique brand of showmanship, pitched somewhere between a librarian and a policeman. With him on stage, there's never a dull moment.

His vocal delivery, spoken as much as sung, gives The Rakes' live sound a mantra-like quality. Their material wouldn't sound out of place on the terraces, even if the four-piece behind it would stick out like a sore thumb.

They end the night with a triumphant '22 Grand Job,' an affront on the kind of rat-race lifestyle they found themselves living not so long ago. But, as Donahoe reminded us earlier, things are different now. A lot can change in a year.

Photo by Adie Nunn