Rhesus

Brixton's Windmill always feels more like someone's attic than a venue. It's a delightfully intimate venue for the epic rock rebirth of the German Exchange, the irresitable pop ska of the Souls and the, er, competent rock of Rhesus.

A cad and a bounder: A clippered 'tach and swept-over fringe turn Ben Reynolds from well-scrubbed college boy into some sort of pre-war rogue, lurching about the stage like a curious blend of Iggy Pop and Terry Thomas. For a bunch of fops and Dandies, The German Exchange are certainly a moody bunch of buggers, though. The churning Televisual guitars and chugging motorik drive of their infancy are there for sure, but now they snarl where once they'd mearly have sulked. Opener 'We Decline' is shot through with jagged interlocking Joy Division guitar-bass interplay and wrapped in Ben's tortured Bowie 'n Morrissey crooning. The dark, molasses-like langour of 'The Horror' and the Bunnymen-esque 'Billy Bray' could give laughin' Thom Yorke and his pals a run for their money.

The Souls are a much more light-hearted prospect. Solid, meaty hooks powered by swaggering basslines worthy of the Specials and footy chant choruses to rival a young Supergrass or an even younger Paul Weller. Maybe even a little 'One Step Beyond'-era Madness, before they went all soft on us. Bounced along by relentless 2-Tone 'Ung-cha Ung-cha' guitar skank, this is geezer-pop to bring a smile to the curmudgeonliest face.

After such deft extremes of cheery sunshine and gloomy shadow, it's a pity Rhesus occupy such a nonedescript middle ground. All the requisite elements are present for punky thrills: guitars that say Gibson on them, amps that say Marshall, a gobby singer, a guitarist with cheek bones like train tracks. But sadly it all just adds up to nothing more than a mid-pace power-chord chug. Neither particularly angry, nor spectacularly joyous and certainly not at the front of the line when tunes were handed out. They'd have been third on the bill in '77. In 2003 there's a queue forming at the bar.