Comanechi live where grunge went to die; in some barren, dusty part of the world where few men fear to tread (without a plaid shirt and shoulder-length hair, anyway). They rolled the rock aside and exhumed what ghosts slept behind, in the dark and damp depths of a cave thought consumed by the sands of time that fall forever beside us; they pinched riffs and plundered pedals, ‘til the concoction was cantankerously exhilarating. What’d it take to make such a glorious mess of maniacal bombast underpinned by butt-boppin’ bass drum beats? It took two, baby…

We’ve crashed the party late, delayed by less-than-satisfactory sushi and too large a glass of red wine to rush; thus, we arrive as the four members of October All Over reconvene in a sweaty huddle, set over some moments earlier, amplifiers shattered and musicians buzzing. Guitarist Neil McLaren says something about them being great, so we’ll have to go with his man-on-the-inside words of wisdom: on their day, which they’re having with an ever-increasing regularity, they’re worthy of a perfect ten anyway. Few bands based in the capital match fury with melody quite so remarkably at the present than this obviously on-the-up foursome.

The night’s headlined by recent Test Icicles tour buddies Damn Arms, Aussies playing to fashion-conscious Brits and cunningly sneaking many an echo of established acts into an entertaining, if creatively shallow, mix of chopped guitar chords and new-wave keys. They do one that they think sounds like The Faint but winds up edging ever closer to The Killers’ made-for-million-seller-status pop-punk-funk sing-alongs as it progresses; indeed, a handful of numbers seem to last too long, and attentions among the assembled quite visibly wander. They rip out a Death From Above 1979-alike effort that has an immediate impact, all fuzzed tones and brutal drumming: it’s an obvious highlight however contrived its composition.

Occasionally the four-piece veer nearer post-hardcore territory, with one song – their second of the set – sounding like a close cousin of Panic! At The Disco’s hyperactively emo histrionics. Something for almost everyone, then, but hardly worthy of absolute praise, such is their accomplished act of impersonation. That said, the quartet are but four months old, so passing a complete judgment at this early juncture would be wrong, period. Next time out, chances are the songs will have gained some sort of identity of their own, at least more so than this evening's demonstration suggests. One feels, however overly familar their current canon of material is, that Damn Arms' infectious enthusiasm will soon rub off in the studio; their technical skills can hardly be faulted, even if their originality can, right now.

Comanechi, though, enthral and horrify, entertain and underwhelm – depends who you are and what’s swimming in your stomach. Everything’s on an invisible edge, so completely unidentifiable that even lanky guitarist Simon - dressed in the epitome of a Christmas Jumper - fails to see it before him, tumbling unceremoniously from the stage as he shifts what weight he has onto an already precariously balanced monitor. This is but two ‘songs’ in (for songs, please read blasts of unrelenting squall backed by the odd mighty, quite probably pillaged but subtly so, riff and vocals that are neither comprehensible nor sensible). Drummer Akiko - draped in an eye-searing riot of pink and yellow, clashing against bright green drums too massive, you'd think, for her slight frame - pounds furiously: what she lacks in prowess she makes up for in spirit and simple noise. A small fuck up during the opening of ‘Mr Baba’ swells over the course of thirty-odd seconds, and the song is promptly abandoned; ‘Naked’ and ‘Rude’ don’t suffer a similar fate, and a lager bottle-wielding pretty boy down the front jerks wildly, contorting his body in time with the cheerleader chant of “R… U… D… E…”

Some’ll say they’re atrocious, style-over-substance nobodies plugging in and plugging away to no one of note; some – us – will say otherwise. You’ll see many, many better bands than Comanechi in your time, but few will be so fun. Few will make you smile and applaud when things go awry, and few will have you losing yourself to a rock so archaic in its delivery that it’s a wonder it sounds so fucking vital today. And all it takes is two, baby...

Photographs by Lucy Johnston