The Twang, James: Brixton Academy, London

27^th April

Noel Gallagher once put the success of Definitely Maybe down to the fact he thought it ‘offered something that was missing from peoples’ lives’ in 1994. There were no credible UK bands that could claim to mean as much to people as The Stones, The Beatles or The Who. The Levellers didn’t really cut it and James appealed to veggies, people who walked dogs via a tatty rope and sang the Greenpeace company song. With rave music disappearing into a ditch in a field somewhere off the A1 and the death of grunge looming, Oasis gave us a master class in song writing, riff stealing and a record to live life by on the eve of the fall of John Major and the rise of cheap alcopops, PlayStation and Loaded.

The Twang have only released an EP and one single, but their songs are the best to be produced in this country since The Libertines put down the guitars and lit up the crack pipes, Arctic Monkeys excepted. Like the Arctic Monkeys, The Twang offer something that mean as much to peoples’ lives as Definitely Maybe did in ’94. Songs about not being able to afford a mortgage, banging a milf while pissed and having it (like, large) while looking at your best mates’ girl are all part of the make-up of the baggy, playful champion rock of The Twang. While house prices are obscene, debt levels are skyrocketing and Deal Or No Deal is the newest revelation on TV, it’s hardly surprising that the UK music scene is exploding at a rate which goes off the Richter scale. And The Twang are at the epicenter. Their bloodline is unashamedly linked to the Happy Mondays, The Stone Roses and Oasis. The brummie swagger and potent delivery of slimey, twisted slang might seem like Mike Skinner in a more tuneful studio session but The Twang have killer hooks, primal sprawling riffs and great beats to boot.

So it’s a real surprise to see The Twang bomb at Brixton Academy. Phil Etheridge comes out swaggering like a featherweight fighter after ten pints of Stella, all excitement and slurred, punch drunk attitude. All of the EP is played, plus a new song from the forthcoming album yet the crowd look on, confused. They stare like a senile Saga induction meet, unsure why they are there and perhaps also forgetting why they even arrived in the first place. The gathered are here to celebrate the return (and death) of hideous, flower powered early nineties hippies James. Sure, James had a couple of decent songs but, Jesus, so did The Levellers. The Twang unleash The Neighbour, looping guitar coda, sublime harmonies and baggy punk attitude and there’s a few cheers, namely from people under 30. But there’s a massive contingent that are in attendance to celebrate 1990, the year that James played their natural homeland, Glastonbury Festival. The music seems secondary, the gathered milf and wankered partners can’t be stirred into any movement. Even beat led singalong Cloudy Room doesn’t raise a smile. Phil sings ‘look around, everyone’s havin’ it’ and no one is, bar the odd girl on the balcony swaying with a pint of Carling. Even an impromptu airing of Salt & Pepper’s Push It can’t penetrate the static crowd who have mentally transported themselves back to 1990 like time travelling tie-dye daleks.

Cascading feedback-friendly Ice Cream Sunday is like a super-charged cover of the Roses’ Waterfall. It could have been sung by Ian Brown in 1990, but here it is tonight, given the genius touch of The Twang. Still there’s no acceptance. One bloke swaggering dangerously near the motionless mosh pit shouts ‘stupid fuckin’ NME band!’ but few people take any notice, politely moving away from the smelly drunkard with a few disgusted looks from women who perhaps have only attended a Take That reunion gig in the last decade. Sensing the lack of reception, Phil attempts to cajole the crowd into action, says he wants people to have fun, thanks London and says ‘NME are really into us, I hope you like us’. You half want someone to call out, confess undying love for The Twang and mobilize a newly discovered troupe of baggy warriors to jovially poke the rose tinted retinas of James fans. Sadly, this doesn’t happen.

Instead, we get 90 minutes of a frontman who throws himself around the stage, flailing like the slap headed host of The Crystal Maze dressed as Rupert Bear. It’s like Harry Hill doing Michael Stipe on Celebrity Stars In Their Eyes. The heady mix of shit 90’s nostalgia is palpable and it’s as crusty and rank as the 1992 Tour tees on the back of several fans. James have made a few concession to 2007, most notably using a laser show and taking advantage of new fangled projectors to plant colourful floral shapes around the stage. The set is dated, moldy and means nothing to anyone, bar the odd crusty, has-been hippy counting out his coppers to buy a pint of cider.

The Twang might not be the obvious winners tonight, but when James play Destiny Calling, you can’t help feeling their destiny is the dustbin and The Twang are on an unstoppable rise to achieve everything James wanted, but couldn’t quite manage.