Why is it that so much of what is meant to be the 'best in new music' (copyright Radio 1) has such a dry stench of deja vu about it that you can almost taste the stale bread and cheese left in the pantry from 2002?

One often wonders what so many of today's esteemed artists would have been listening to, and what they'd ultimately have sounded like, if there'd been no Is This It or Up The Bracket - themselves both re-writes of the halcyon days of yore - to fill their spare time with four summers ago. I'm not saying that everything has to be entirely original, but just how many more of these kind of bands are there?

Indeed, some of the worst music in recent years has been deemed entirely original, usually because originality is often defined as and substituted for 'tuneless dirge'. So, as an advocate of tunes, I suppose these Strokes-et-al-aping bands should be encouraged for at least sticking to the art of writing songs, even if there is all too often a propensity for the audience to have more than an inkling of what is coming next.

Openers Dirty Tux, for example, make all the right moves, look every inch the archetypical rock band, and even have a singer who berates scenesters who wear skinny ties and hecklers by asking them "not to shout in French next time". They also have some fiery tunes in their armoury that sound as brash and incongruous as you'd expect from a bunch of young upstarts playing what is probably the biggest show of their lives. Annoyingly though, they punctuate their set with more than the odd Monkey-ism that threatens to spoil what is an otherwise energetically charming performance. If they were to lose those and show a bit more of their true selves, Dirty Tux could have an exciting future ahead of them.

What do Gracie Fields, Lionel Bart, Charles Hodges, Pete Doherty, David Peacock and Steve Marriott have in common? On the surface not a great deal, but put their wares together in a big vault and stir repeatedly and you have the chemical compound for The Holloways' repertoire.

Obviously inspired by The Libertines but just as likely to trade in the punk-fuelled guitars for folk violins or a sing-song round the old piano, The Holloways are the latest offerings from the south-west London-based musical scene that has spawned so many up-and-coming artists of recent times. It has to be said, though, that they are also the most derivative, and at times the vocal duets of Alfie Jackson and Rob Skipper really do sound like a modernday Chas 'n' Dave fronting The Libertines. No doubt there are dozens of other bands the length and breadth of England, and in particular around and about the capital, doing this kind of thing, so what sets this lot apart to the tune of a nice record deal and numerous celebrity endorsements both on television and the radio?

Well, it helps that they have one of this summer's catchiest pop songs, 'Two Left Feet', to fall back on, not to mention a distinctly uncohesive stage manner that makes viewing seemingly more interesting in the knowledge that the whole shebang might fall apart any moment now. During the ironically titled 'Reinvent Myself' it does, on several occasions.

I suppose the best way to sum up The Holloways is that they're like a KFC Zinger Tower burger and fries - you always know what you're going to get, no matter the time or place, and it fills a hole for an hour or so. Whether you'd want to sample any more or try something more substantial in the long run is the real burning issue here, though.