The Dirtbombs

Okay, first things first: I have to tell you about The Dirtbombs through a hangover so urgent, so vital, so now, that I'll still be hungover tomorrow. Possibly perpetually.

It was all The Dirtbombs' fault and I'd like to thank them for it. It's quite simple. You take the garage rock band format - guitar, bass, drums, lead vocal, backing vocal - and you amplify it, by doubling up the rhythm section. The idea is to make people move; down the front, shirtless young men raise their arms to the sky as Mick Collins machine-guns the audience with his Strat and bassist Ko* jerks around the stage, a tiny, wired, presence, leaping onto the monitors, handing a cig into to the audience with a salute. The salute was in time with the drums. _Everything_ about her is locked into the double-up drum groove of *Ben Blackwell and partner in time Pat Pantano.

For the musicians in the house, a tremendously funky, steely, stylish Curtis Mayfield cover, which reduces me to jelly. For the pleasure-seekers, a whole cavalcade of barrelling bass riffs, lascivious, skanking guitar, lewd gestures, volume, steel, passion, the bass, the bass, the drums, the drums, soulfire, grit, determination, sweat (this is The Night and Day, children), dancing, joy, total absorption in something so intrinsically FUN that my expectations of what a live show should be are shattered and rebuilt.

From now on, live music will have to make me forget everything, shut up, dance and then roar off into town, for a night of saying 'YES' to anything and absolutely everything. Soul food tastes good. I'm out.