The Maccabees

Whoever said that flyering in the street was dead is either a liar or indefinitely housebound, as neither the rain nor the Champions League football seems to have deterred the dozen or so leaflet launderers standing between me and the doors of the Rescue Rooms this evening.

Having added my name to several mailing lists and collected numerous pieces of paper under my tired right arm, the final ‘invitation of sorts’ I'm handed is for one Derek Meins, who I'm told is going on stage in about five minutes. With this information at hand, it seems a perfectly good reason to increase the spring in my step and make my way into what, in an hour’s time, will be a densely populated setting.

Meins, you may recall, used to be one quarter of Berwick indie minstrels Eastern Lane, and while it's probably fair to say that his former employers never really got out of the indie second division, on his own he's a ferociously captivating character of many guises.

Opening with a song that seems to celebrate the fact Meins would learn to swim if the ocean was made of gin, his musings are interspersed with poetic rants such as the furious 'Richard's Going Through Phases' which sounds like a diary of someone's transformation from good to bad to ugly. Who knows? Of course the shouts for Eastern Lane material don't subside until he submits, and an acoustic rendition of 'Feed My Addiction' nearly brings the house down. Still with time for more jovial ditties about babies in graveyards and a closing speech proclaiming Meins to be the greatest living poet, it's difficult not to be both transfixed or impressed by his performance.

For Jack Peñate, Nottingham is fast becoming his second home as he seems to have played the city at least once a month since the turn of the year. Not a bad thing in itself, particularly from his point of view, as he's built up quite a following in these parts, something which is ably demonstrated by the fact literally dozens sing along to every word of his entire set, even the unreleased stuff.

To be fair to Peñate he does seem to be a born entertainer, and despite the accusations of an overly-privileged background ("All the band went to the same private school, so what?" spits the singer after another wag shouts out the infamous words “LDN is a victim”), there is something about him that makes him feel like one of us, even if it is the fact you can almost taste the sweat cascading from him every time he shakes his head.

One thing he does need to do before making a similar step up to where tonight's headliners are at, however, is write a few more distinctive tunes. There is a touch of the same-old about a lot of his material. Saying that, set closer 'Torn On The Platform' is one hell of a tune.

This time last year, The Maccabees were struggling to attract double-figure-sized crowds to shows outside of their home turf. Now, with a clutch of chart-bothering singles behind them and the imminent release of one of this year's most eagerly anticipated albums just around the corner, it seems the Brighton-based five-piece really can do no wrong at present.

As hard-working bands go, The Maccabees are up there with the best of them, as they seem to have been on a never-ending schedule of live dates for about two years, duly writing their own headlines along the way rather than relying on promotional or media hype. Certainly all of their graft seems to have paid off, as they are fast becoming one of the most accomplished live acts in the country, and their elevation to large, hundreds-holding venues seems to be just around the corner.

It's a testament to their live shows that once again, even though a good half of their set hasn't yet officially made it into the public domain, the fervent pandemonium which greets the likes of 'All In Your Rows' and 'Tissue Shoulders' suggests that when Colour It In does see the light of day one should expect its contents to be sung by a cast of thousands at a festival near you this summer.

Even the more familiar songs have subject matters which probably mean nothing to the average Nottingham gig-goer - the nearest most people in here have probably ever been to a wave machine is Southglade Leisure Centre. In fact, most probably couldn't tell you where 'Latchmere' is, but that doesn't stop the sing-along. Nor does the fact that B-sides like 'Bicycles' are wheeled out like long-lost uncles at a Christmas party, affectionately embraced by one and all as a result.

By the end of the set, vocalist Orlando Weeks and his band mates are grinning like Cheshire Cats after one too many wraps of ketamine. As for those of us in the audience, we can only watch on in awe.

The Big Time surely beckons...