When Will I be Famous: The Sights / The Detroit Cobras, Astoria, London <br></br>Bluebird, Metro, London<br></br>Dureforsog, Garage, London
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Your support makes all the difference.It is a great name – so obvious, it's amazing no one seems to have used it before. Who could resist being taken out to see The Sights? I can't pretend that the Detroit quartet (right) offer anything original, but their recreation of music past is so deft and catholic that they transcend their influences. So, "It'd Be Nice" is pure Mersey Beat; "Got What I Want", the title track of their superb second album, apes The Yardbirds; and "Nobody" is a pure McCartney rocker, that greatly undervalued subgenre. The singer-guitarist, Eddie Baranek, could be a real rock god, part-Cobain, part-Marriott (for the older folks), and he howls like John Fogerty, too. Investigate this great band.
The poor Detroit Cobras suffer tonight at the hands of a crowd that fails to recognise their conceptual genius. For their raison d'être is simply to rediscover obscure rock'n'roll gems and kick life into them, much like The Cramps used to. The brilliant "Hey Sailor" could do with backing-vocals, being a call-and-response number, but the eternal Mod anthem "I'll Keep on Holding on" and The Staple Singers' "You Don't Knock" are great fun; and Rachel Nagy's languid vocals are highly appealing.
Bluebird's recent, rather good Hot Blood album oddly straddles the usually opposed genres of metal and power pop; live, the band are less defined. Famously, LA rock acts are either heroically artless or self-consciously artistic. This one uses a filmed backdrop of city streets, so go figure. Hampered by the abysmal sound down in the Rock Hole of Oxford Street, they give their all, but it's hard to reach a verdict on the night. The singer, Sam James Velde, is a gentlemanly little dynamo, though. His vocal turn from behind the bar will never be forgotten by the pint-pushers.
If the stories are anything to go by, Denmark's very odd Dureforsog (it means "Animal Testing", apparently) warrant a trip. Songs stop and start seemingly at random; the drummer concentrates so hard, his tongue pokes out; the singer slips into a tortuous falsetto; and great instrumental skill is displayed throughout. I suppose the nearest UK equivalent is Jarcrew, from Wales, but I bet they never read out poetry on national radio. The crowd seems to enjoy them – perhaps cult status beckons.
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