The Vibe Bar is near virginal when it comes to hosting shebangs of the rock �n� roll variety. People wander in and out from the beer garden to collect their drinks and comfy sofas litter the areas where sweaty moshpits should theoretically be forming. The flabbergasted manageress accosts one of the soundchecking acts for their ear-shattering volume. �I don�t know if you�d noticed,� comes the curt response, �but we�re a ROCK BAND.� Wise and wonderful words.

So it is, amid a liquid throng of post-work suits and new media trendies, that the stage is taken by four young pop nippers, Hands On Heads. What a superb name. Doesn�t it take you right back to infant school and that feeling of righteous indignity at receiving a punishment you just didn�t deserve? Well that�s where these peeps come in. And bwoy that jerk of a teacher never saw this coming.

Ever wondered who would win in a knife fight between Weezer and Melt-Banana? Ever spent a lonely hour brainstorming what sounds The B-52�s would create if thrown headfirst into a massive fucking blender? This is one-and-a-half minute popsong genius; only beat up and limber, knocked into obliviousness by sharp-as-knives distorted hell. It�s all my favourite bands broken in pieces and squished, ill-fittingly, back together again. With SURF GUITAR. All over your FACE.

Nothing will never be the same again.