"That", I countered, "Is where you're wrong". Well, half wrong. I came to see a band called Last Days of April. Sure, they're from out of town (Sweden, to be precise) but hell, they're worth my dollar any day. I mean, sublimely crafted gentle emo-pop tunes created with a feather-light touch and attention to detail. That's gotta be worth someone's Friday night, right?

Well, theoretically. But the Monarch on a Friday is no place for pleasant theories. Especially if you have the live presence of LDOA. Any illusion of a raft of show-stopping tunes to thrill the masses quickly comes adrift when it becomes apparent that singer Karl Larsson, for all his classic Swedish Indie Boy good looks, has the vocal strength of a bronchially-afflicted octogenarian. Matters are not helped by the muddy wall of sound which the band pathetically attempts to break through. What's most heart breaking though, is the indifference that the quartet seem to have. They give it one of those 'just not our night' shrugs and coast through the half-hour set. The rock elements are limp and the 'heart-wrenching torch ballad' they offer at the end is straight out of Chapter One of the 'How To Commit Gigging Suicide' handbook. Its wrenching, but for all the wrong reasons and in all the wrong ways.

"Where did you hear this band?" inquired the semi-comatose friend I brought along. "Oh, I've got the album", I retorted, embarrassed.

Check out the album; but give it a while before you brave the Friday night Camden cold to check 'em out live. At least till they grow some muscles.