Ten Benson

They may not be hungry but they sure are weird: Here in North London Arch-quirksters Ten Benson punch us in the face with their pin-sharp new rawk direction with a gaggle of equally eye-opening support acts in tow...

Nebraska are a bizarre proposition: A brash post punk electro-rock sound merging the ultra-hip disco-wave likes of Blondie with fist-in-the-air eighties hair anthems. Singer Mike with his big sideys and quiff looks more Rocket From The Crypt than Talking Heads, but the arch posturing recalls none more than David Byrne in his big silly suit. 'We Salute You' is a cracking geographical history of rock’n’roll and easily their best song. Mike ends up dancing alone round the dancefloor, adding to the bizarre spectacle of it all.

Starfighter-X might not dance, but by golly their music makes me want to. Scowling out from behind their instruments, clad in Blake’s Seven-retro-futuristic silver T-shirts, they’re as brilliant as they are weird. The vicious breakbeat-punk sound belies a melodic nous that skips between a nagging melancholy and joyous pop hooks which make me think Buzzcocks or even, lordy, The Smiths. But SFX are not ones to ponce around in beads and gladioli. Singer Dave’s finger mangling psych-rock hooks and squealing noise solos and boyish bassist Justin’s bouncy hooks, Anastasia’s pounding drumming, grafted from drum’n’bass, back when it was called Jungle, power these 21st-century power pop nuggets along like a juggernaut.

Just as bizarre as SFX’s bohemian cool is Sludgefeast’s unhinged posturing – cock-rock as re-styled by mental patients. Frontman James screams in a ludicrous phoney American accent about beer, computer games and ‘motherfuckers’. Well I guess there must be a lot of incest in Wimbourne. While at times it might sound like they’re playing the same song over and over again, for the most part, their crunching stoner riffs and maniacal garage rock momentum gleefully bash along like Tony Iommi joining the Stooges and - inevitably – having loads of fights…

Last thing I heard of Ten Benson, they were a loveable, if decidedly geeky, gaggle of quirk-rock experimentalists. Now they’ve been reborn as an inbred family of redneck truckers resplendent in mesh caps and string vests and hirsute faces. Hints of their weirdo origins hang on in the bleeping and squalling synths and the jerky momentum of some of the more Beefheart-esque licks, but really, brash, deep-fried southern boogie and AC/DC riffs are the order of the day. Even old favourites like “Robot Tourist” and “Black Snow” get a tight-as-a-bee’s-arse fuzztone makeover as witnessed on their "Danger of Deaf" album . Ten Benson seem to have morphed into the head-banging, whiskey-swilling, deodorant-not-using, bloody fantastic cock’n’roll band they once parodied. It all just goes to show: Be careful whom you mock you might just become them.