Fuzz Club

Bleeps, beeps and guitars are really quite trendy these days, aren’t they? The kids, they love ‘em, and whilst I'm not adverse to this whole ‘New Rave’ phenomenon per se, I'm yet to be blown away by a band who've been tagged as such. Klaxons? I can take them or leave them to be honest. Shitdisco? The joke's almost too easy.

The last time I saw To My Boy, however, they seemed quite an interesting proposition. True, I'd been drinking for some hours at Sheffield's premier all-dayer Fuzztival and succumbed willingly to their jerky endeavours, but alcohol wasn't the only thing that fuelled my interest in Jack Snape and Sam White on that cool October evening.

No, they had a certain spark about them; their minimalist compositions took on a life of their own and sounded exciting, like Franz Ferdinand plugged into the national grid, or Kraftwerk played at quadruple speed. Tonight, however, they bore me. Laptop failure leaves them with an awkward early silence - and, gasp, it was a Mac that went wrong - and they never quite recover.

There are good moments, though. 'I Am X-Ray', for instance, is an energetic introduction. People are dancing, it's fun. Technically it's all simple stuff: the beats are basic and could probably be knocked up by many of us given a few spare hours and the relevant software, but they do their job. So too the guitars; all choppy barre chords ringing from the necks of their Telecasters, but it's wholly competent stuff - and that's all it needs to be.

The reason bands like the aforementioned Klaxons do so well isn't because of their technical prowess, it's because they know how to work a crowd and make their gig seem like an event. To My Boy could learn something from that. Onstage, they rarely break away from their regimented, robot shtick and it would seem their malaise is contagious. If you don't care, we won't either. A smile costs nothing, after all, and tonight I leave feeling more than a little short changed.

Photograph by Gary Wolstenholme