Dogs

When every man and his canine trawled up to Manchester last September to watch a miriad of hopeless bands play hopeless tunes, the feeling was that there was nothing left; rock n'roll had gone to the dogs. Now, we learn, rock n'roll has actually gone to the Dogs.

So, when this band who are kicking up a fuss with all the right people, step up onstage, we stare a little harder and cross our arms with a little more firmness. We're cynical little bastards, really. Their case is not helped by a clean and well-kept club venue like 93 Feet East - this is not rock n'roll. It's spacious, well lit, and therefore unsettling; we want sparkling musical grime, not sparkling grime-free floorboards.

Fortunately, Dogs cater for those who hanker after ever-so slightly mucky sharp and direct rn'r. The five piece stand behind their instruments, allowing them to ricochet tunes around the room, seemingly unable to stop themselves. Their mild appearance certainly doesn't give suggestion that it's them who're leading this new wave of assault, so we must assume that someone's sprinkled rock dust across the six-strings. Not a heavy powdering, mind, but enough to make the rock grime sparkle brighter than the light fittings.

With a frontman rocking the post-Style Council Wellah look (minus a good twenty years, naturally) and a resolute sense of Englishness about it all, there's a feeling of this is what you'd get if the Strokes played cricket. A googlie in all respects. It's not quite there yet, the band miss a Jonny Borrell, Nick Valensi or Carl Barrat, but until someone develops a stage swagger to match the rock swing, we'll happily keep chasing these Dogs round the estate. Not yet the mutt's nuts, but certainly no dog's dinner.