Franz Ferdinand

It’s probably extremely bad journalistic practice (and bad manners to boot) not to even bother finding out the names of support bands. I feel justified, however, after being the recipient of two bands’ worth of wasted time. It’s like a boring drill in my ear for ages. I’m forced to soak up the Cockpit’s air-raid shelter, domed-roof, subterranean-like air. I spend the time mulling over the phone call I received from my dear friend Heather on the way to the venue. She really likes Dolly Parton.

Heather had seen Domino records boys Franz Ferdinand in Nottingham but a few days prior. She loved them. She failed to mention the brilliance of their haircuts. I fell in love with the way Franz Ferdinand looked as soon as they started playing, and about 76% of this was due to the barnets. The band doesn’t secrete sex, drugs and rock n roll. Let it not be said that these guys are fashionable - they are crownable as dukes of total nerdom… so I instantly put them on some weird enigmatic pedestal because their very existence seems so unlikely.

Musically, it’s heavenly. It’s a shaky disco rock thing, traceable back to Talking Heads, The Cars, and an ironed-straight Gang Of Four. Etch-A-Sketch guitar spikes and a hypnotic BOM KA BOM KA drum beat collide brilliantly. There’s no need for it to vary throughout the set. It’s pure perfect simplicity.

The band have no sense of how to dance, they merely jerk around on stage. I’m surprised they don’t have each other’s eyes out. They lay down some awesome rock for a while, shuffle around, then go home. A quartet of computer nerds armed with fantastic haircuts and even more fantastic songs. My ears feel blistered, in a really really good way.