Mystery Jets, Garage, Glasgow

Which brings us round to the Mystery Jets. A reasonably straightforward guitar-rock group by most definitions, it speaks chapters about the relatively formulaic nature of most overground music at the moment that the quintet are presented as other-dimensional rag-and-bone men come to redefine our narrow definitions of aural pleasure. Much of this frisson seems to stem from their odd personnel-dynamic - the guitarist Henry Harrison is singer Blaine Harrison's father, and to see them on stage is to realise that this is one band who take the old maxim about co-opting their dad's record collections to heart.

Blaine, youthful and bohemian perched behind his mike and a bank of percussive instruments in a hooded top, doesn't look either ill-at-ease or out of place playing in a rock'n'roll band a few feet from his father.

Then again, Henry Harrison doesn't look much your regular dad. Dressed in a sports jacket and suave open-necked vest, he enters into the band's maverick live spirit with a gleeful thumbs-up to the crowd and some shuffling dance-steps.

With their pounding drums, weird time-signatures, the odd crackpot lyric and insistent guitar sound, and the somewhat bohemian concerns of songs like "You Can't Fool Me Dennis", "The Boy Who Ran Away" and "Alas Agnes" (introduced by Blaine as being about "a boy and a transsexual"), the Mystery Jets fall into the ballpark of space-rock - prog by any other name - as previously inhabited by the likes of King Crimson, or perhaps Pink Floyd recorded in a garden shed rather than Abbey Road.

Is the Mystery Jets' music visionarily eccentric and likely to affect the thinking of artists to come? Of course not. All the Mystery Jets are is a refreshing change from the norm, and a bit of fun besides.