The Warlocks

To quote the final word of 90’s TV treat This Life, “Outstanding!”

Shuffling onto stage, Solihull trio Flik appear to be your average, unremarkable support act whisked straight from the leafy suburbs of Birmingham, but all is often not as it seems – just ask Michael Jackson’s social worker.

To start with, they couldn’t try to be any more grunge unless they bent Natalie Imbruglia over the guitar amp and set about work on the formation of Silverchair Juniors, humping away in time with the bass line to 'Pennyroyal Tea'.

Their average slacker-metal is not the sort of behaviour that can leave an audience stunned, but the declaration that the whole band doesn’t need drink or drugs because they’ve got Jesus Christ is. They’re not even joking – I’ve never seen a bunch of faces as sincere since the Blue Peter presenters gathered around a picture of an African child to announce this year’s appeal.

The amiable frontman even asks the audience to let God into their lives although, to be honest, most people look quite content with their pint of lager and pack of Marlboro Lights, more interested in the arrival of tonight’s headline act than searching for divine intervention. Apart from the guy at the back who looks engrossed in his copy of the Old Testament. But maybe he’s their Dad.

With a name like The Warlocks and a frontman sporting an official Ozzy Osbourne hairstyle, it’d be hard to imagine anything more metal than if you saw a greasy-haired roadie in a Harley Davidson t-shirt walk out of HMV with the latest Whitesnake album under his arm. It’s slightly surprising when singer Bobby Hecksher takes to the microphone and doesn’t yell, “SHAAARRRRON! The dog’s fucking crapped on Jack’s bayonet again!”

Taking up almost every inch of the stage not already covered by a collection of amplifiers and drum kits, the seven strong Warlocks kick off their set of highly satisfying drone-rock sounding like a beefed up Dandy Warhols jam session, but as the evening progresses they appear to take heed of a heckler’s advice, pushing faster and louder, reaching the parts lighter-hearted bands couldn’t reach.

Maybe it’s the sinister undercurrent of drug references and comparisons to The Velvet Underground in the press, but it’s not long before their style has hardened yet sounding equally as spaced out than if the planet Saturn began swaying to Slowdive with its outer rings addled on smack.

As the evening’s entertainment gallops rather than whimpers to a close, it’s like watching Black Rebel Motorcycle Club piece together the darkest moments of Six By Seven’s debut, ‘The Things We Make’.

The presence of dual stickmen behind two kits is key to giving The Warlocks the unmistakable pounding rhythm which is heavier than a bad headache without the nausea, but more importantly, it begs tonight’s million dollar question – if having two drummers in a band sounds this good, why were Rialto so ordinary?