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Vincent Vincent and the Villains tell us they hail from south east London but given their 1950s rhythm guitar-led swagger, we’d just as likely stumble across them in a smokey Tennessee bar, glass of bourbon in hand. The quartet stroll on at 2am and as soon as pick hits string the audience is swaying to the neatly-delivered Villain rock ‘n’ roll, charmed by the baritone croon of the lead man. Opening chords of crowd favourite ‘On My Own’ incite jump, shove and fist routines, but the etiquette the Villains’ brand of pop-rock demands brings even the most hyperactive purveyors of Burberry check (that Frog, owing to its Charing X Road location unfortunately attracts) back into a swish-sway show of appreciation.
Critics have been impressed for a while now with this cheery, rockabilly pop; even the sharpest of hacks are forced to eschew sarcastic wisecracks in favour of upping the out of 10s. Indeed, any putdowns tonight are reserved for the DJ, whose playlist consists of ‘music’ as synthetic as the stuff you need to be on to enjoy it, confirming what we already know: that Frog is the shittest indie club in London. DJ notwithstanding, it can’t all be first-rate and it wasn’t; although Vincent cuts a figure as an honest, chipper chap with enough flair to rob a famed narcotics addict of his claim to Zeitgeist, (if not, judging from the trilby, his wardrobe then!) His bravado doesn’t quite lift the informed from the opinion that the band is noticeably knackered from the day’s efforts already, including a show in the albeit much more sedate setting of the Rough Trade shop.
The let-up between lesser known numbers is only attributable to the wait for the recognisable and it bites you in the ass when the band roll out one of those: ‘Johnny Two Bands’. Give them time, slap ‘em on yer ‘Pods, pour yerself a whiskey and enjoy!
