Whilst the local metal scene does still seem to be dominated by nu-metal and emo-core, none of tonight’s three strikingly different bands fall into either category.

Cobalt 60 are as metal as they come - all chugging Metallica riffs and Slayer-style vocals. Their songs do tend to go on too long and they seem a bit too stern, but the sheer weight of their sound is impressive, especially when they invite Barry and the Beachcombers up for a cover of the latter’s ‘Help The Aged’ (almost the antithesis of the Pulp hit, with its “Fighting with old people” chorus) that is actually better than the Beachcombers’ own later rendition.

Maybe it is due to poor sound but the Beachcombers are a bit disappointing tonight. They seem to competing too much with the other bands’ heaviness, to the point of burying their off-the-wall lyrics and Mr Bungle-esque arrangements in a mess of noisy-punk thrash which, like the cow who plays guitar (we kid you not), only holds your attention for so long. The energy is there but the step from local pubs to larger venues is sometimes tricky. The madcap imagination in the songs come across better when they calm down a little like on the duck quack stomp of ‘Aeroplane’, or even better when they come across like a weird clash between the Cure and the Cardiacs.

The strange fusion route is not one Mook appear to ever have gone down: theirs is an American alternative metal style and no mistake. Internal organs wobble involuntarily as they charge through slab after slab of Alice in Chains and L7-style grunge, whilst singer Mike Gilpin roars powerfully like the bastard child of Mike Patton and Scott Weiland. Admittedly he’s not really a frontman of their stature and the burly-blokes-with-heads-down stagecraft isn’t gripping but when they play songs like the furious ‘Monster No.1’, coming on more like Pantera involved in a headbutting competition with the Rollins Band, you get the impression they were never here to perform dance routines.

Nothing startlingly groundbreaking then tonight, but if you hate all things limp and like your metal touched by the hand of Hetfield, plenty to get you sweaty.

Lee Christian