Watching these four baby-faced scamps ply their trade amongst the Little Civic’s unspectacular if slightly homely surroundings is like watching the bright eyed offspring of some sordid alt-rock one-night stand between a drunken Urusei Yatsura and a frisky Pavement take shape before your very eyes. These guys probably weren’t even shaving when 'Plastic Ashtray' got its final airing on the nation’s airwaves, but it’s pleasing to know that someone else was scribbling the Scottish legend’s name on their exercise books in a teenage act of classroom rebellion.

The chances are that they’re probably more under the influence of records released in the golden age of the Black Country’s independent scene. Distophia have picked up the baton left by such criminally undervalued luminaries as Jameson, Baxxter and The Starries.

'San Diego Hair' and 'Cats of Brazil' are packed tightly with an unflappable blend of angular riffs and swampy distortion, while 'Joanne' is greeted with a modest (ie. two or three) number of enthusiastic whoops that is bound to grow during 2004. Saying all this, the bassist paid me a warmly received compliment on my Joy Division t-shirt, so I’d feel obliged to give them a decent review, even if they reminded me of Busted on the banjo. It’s a good thing they’re not shit and actually very good I suppose.

Meanwhile, there’s a kid down the front who’s caught my eye. He looks like he’s been there all night. By the time Jetplane Landing strike their first chord, it’s clear who this young lad is here to see. Seemingly loaded up to the eyeballs on artificial colourings and E-numbers, he starts leaping up and down like a chimpanzee on fire in a banana plantation. It later transpires that he’s called Chez and he stayed awake all last night to do his homework just so he could be here tonight.

I’d very often want to slap someone like Chez, bouncing up and down, usually directly onto my new trainers, or swinging a clenched fist dangerously close to my testicles. Not tonight though. I want to pat Chez on the head and commend him on his commitment and enthusiasm. I like him because he’s having a great time, and I’m having a great time, because Jetplane Landing are having a great time, which means Chez continues to have a great time. And so the circle continues.

One quick glance across the room is all that’s needed to see he’s not the only one here who has a soft spot for Jetplane Landing. Small pockets of underage amateur aviators have visibly been busy. Reams of stolen A4 from the school photocopier have been crafted into miniature Boeing jumbos before being hurled towards their heroes in a creative act of devotion. Rather than smirk at their audience’s quirky admiration, Jetplane Landing respond like people who you would happily introduce to your Gran. They know people’s names and are happy to chat.

There are people gleefully singing along with every word, but this isn’t some gay old sing-a-long to HMS Pinafore. For every modest moment of banter, Jetplane respond with a fistful of gutsy riffs and passion.

There are plenty of people in the business who could take a leaf out of the Jetplane Landing rock and roll manual. Rule one - just because you’ve been given the opportunity to play in a band for a living, make records, take the plaudits, put a smile on people’s faces, doesn’t mean you have to act like a miserable sod with a screwed up expression like a wrinkly scrotum. You can be nice and still rock.