Tonight’s headliners are splendid hardcore merchants McClusky. They were reviewed in Nightshift a couple of months ago so I’m not allowed to do them again tonight, which makes the prospect of this bill altogether less enticing.

Some people would heap praise on Ripcord for possessing such obvious musical talent at such a tender age, and indeed they look so innocent part of you wants to love them. But really, this is the sort of muso indulgence that should be left to 40-year olds in pub rock covers bands. Don’t let your youth go to waste, kids! The vocalist is pleasant enough in an anonymous session singer fashion and generally keeps her head down and out of trouble. At one point it all threatens to turn into Bryan Adams’ ‘Summer of 69’ before fizzling out completely. Not that this matters though, since Ripcord aren’t doing this for anything so cynical as fame or money. No, they’re doing it - as the bassist informs us - for “The love of Jesus Christ”. But when the singer goes on to inform us that “This one is about how Jesus is always here with us” it’s hard to resist replying “While he’s there, can you ask him to write you a song that doesn’t sound like it’s been lifted from the soundtrack to Dawson’s Creek”. Not wishing to incur the wrath of the Almighty, we remain silent, content in the knowledge that whatever we think about them, Ripcord will forgive us.

If there’s anything more sanctimonious than Christian rockers it’s loud, in your way, looking down their noses at you American rockers. Which brings us neatly to Snowdogs, over here to promote their new album, ‘Animal Farm’, which is, according to the singer, “About money-grabbing, evil, selfish bastards”. Which would be great if he didn’t follow that with “This is our new single, go out and buy it”. Americans never did get irony. You know what they sound like; in fact you’ve heard it all before: The Offspring, Blink 182, Less Than Jake etc. The problem with this so-called American punk is that it completely misses the point. Did Kurt really die so these bastards could move in and celebrate what he tried so hard to destroy? Grunge happened to kill off this sort of moronic crap. Sadly, thanks to bands like Snowdogs, and the continual patronage of the likes of Steve Lamacq, it is, unlike Mr Cobain, very much alive and kicking. Oh well, nevermind.

Badly Dressed Boy