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Two things must first be explained about Bucky, of whom there are two, Joff and Simon, old school pals. First, they are not simply a two piece playing the finest simple skiffle pop delights in the West Country (if not the World); no, Bucky are also a hilariously endearing comedy double act that would make Reeves & Mortimer consider enrolling on a team building course. Second, Joff, does not use a bass drum. This would normally be strange enough in itself, except that Joff only has one hand. You’d think a drummer only able to use one stick would make as much use of his feet as possible, but instead Joff bangs out his bass beat on a floor tom with his stump as his drum kit runs away from him. This shouldn’t be funny, but it really, really, is.

These two things are important because it means Bucky are 4 songs into their set before you actually notice - due to being so distracted by Joff’s brilliant and original drum skills - their endearing enthusiasm, their heart warming rapport and side splitting ad libs. By the time you've observed, considered and made aesthetic judgements about their fast paced, double vocal, stop start style, they’ve so thoroughly won you over that it is impossible not to love them so much you want to take them home and put them on your mantelpiece. There they could stay, bopping along singing about dogs ('Hi-Fido', 'Grease'), Libraries ('I Love Libraries'), The Beatles, teenagers, bicycles and best of all... Ponies. “I’m a Pony/ but soon I’ll be a horse!” rings out their final song, which the whole of Moles sings along with them in glorious, grinning abandon, before they are dragged back out for an encore.

“Woah, man!” said Bucky’s Joff, “We’ve just seen Gobsausage backstage and they make us look really PC!” He’s not wrong, as Gobsausage stride out onto a bare stage; a guy in a gimp mask, an asian guy and three girls wearing strategically placed duct tape. It's like something out of a Brett Easton Ellis novel. (It's later pointed out to Gigwise by one of the girls' mums that only one was actually in the band; the other two were barmaids who’d been recruited on a whim). It’s sleaze grunge, almost as dirty as the bass beats on the backing track. Most of the crowd love it and the front's teaming with shrieking young girls. Har Mar may have to watch out.
The show's entertaining enough, but the vocal balance is awful and the only snippet of shouted semi-rapped lyrics decipherable seem to be “I lower the tone”. How true. No instruments are played on stage, the three vocalists ‘sing’ over trashy techno and dirty gabba beats, so the only real interest stems from the absence of clothing. Coming across this in a Club setting may be more intriguing, but at a gig it seems out of place, a gimmick gone too far: burlesque with no beef behind it.

Much hyped New York duo Ratatat are another outfit that appear to have strayed out of the Dance arena and onto the Bands stage by mistake. However, at least they have some musical merit, playing epic guitar and bass instrumental prog tunes that sample every genre under the sun. They begin with sleazy hip-hop, recalling a dirtier Daft Punk, before shifting into dance gear. The guitar sings like Hendrix on 'Star Spangled Banner', and they play in near darkness with projections behind the bassist cued with foot-triggered Magnesium flares. Again, in a club you'd probably be thrilled to bits, but after the humanity and repartie of Bucky, Ratatat’s rock disco, devoid of vocals, seemed distant and cold.

Photos by Theo Berry