Mystery Jets

Syd Barrett’s face adorns the London Zodiac’s lifebelt hanging from this canteen ceiling. It's a nice touch name checking Cambridge’s lost soul, but sad too, given the fact that Mystery Jets have to point out who he is to a largely bemused audience.

His presence looms large: Eel Pie Island's sons' whimsical psychedelia owes a debt to Barrett-era Pink Floyd. The literal daddy of the Jets, Henry Harrison looks like he ought to be in the Floyd instead of supporting son Blaine who, as part time percussionist, utilizes both colander and upturned dustbin lid to great effect.

Utilizing these ‘instruments’ sums up Mystery Jets nicely: battered looking, endearingly ramshackle and capable of making a right old racket.

Let’s face it though, what we really want are tunes. This is where Mystery Jets misfire: sure ‘Alas Agnes’ is a winner but ‘You Can’t Fool Me Dennis’ sounds leaden-footed, and too much of the set meanders.

Mystery Jets are, thanks to their rough ‘n’ ready image and sound, that bit different but a New Year tour with Arctic Monkeys will be a tough test. Good luck lads.