Saturday 26/04/08 The Kills, These New Puritans @ The Trinity Centre, Bristol

These New Puritans don't half make some noise. When the awesome double keyboard assault shatters your senses, the Battles-like bass rumbling down the floor and up into your chest, you can feel your lungs suddenly starting to get confused. "Should I be breathing in this shit?" it whimpers. The sneer-pop works beautifully when the electronic beats allow the songs some direction, but when the sound just trails off into noise, your concentration goes with it and you start to wonder if the milk-bottle tops covering singer Jack's shirt are skimmed or semi. "Wow, that was so new," a voice in the crowd cries when they finish. "Wow, that was so old," comes a sarcastic reply.

Alison Mosshart, 50% of Kill, VV to you and me, resplendent in leopard skin jacket and faded red jeans, sullenly circles the stage, jet black hair trailing behind her, fuck-you-but-I-love-you swagger swirling in front. To her right, Jamie Hince (Hotel), drags the mike stand back and fore, lunging at a guitar that sounds like its been dipped in 50 years of greasy rock and roll. Behind them those iconic years  - Lou Reed, Nico, Robert Frank's x-rated document of the Stones - play out on a big screen.

The Kills lurch forward with the minimal garage of 'U.R A Fever' before getting grimy and gorgeous with 'Pull A You'. 'No Wow' is horny as hell . 'Good Ones' is cheeky and desperate. 'Goodnight Bad Morning' is a blessing of Mazzy Star dessert blues. 'Sour Cherry' plays off against the 60s footage of inner city playground rhymes that new record, the infectious, ragged Midnight Bloom is indebted to.

Little Richard knew that all rock and roll was sexual. The Kills just want to smear it as far and wide as they can. The chemistry spun tighter than their jeans, VV and Hotel get all feverish and lustful during 'Kissy Kissy', teasing the audience as much as themselves. The projection flickers with Frank's early 70s footage of Jagger and Richards, arrogant and gorgeous, already aware of their infamy. No one's watching though - all eyes are on the sass and cocksucker blues happening right in front of us.

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