THE BIG Bag Of Sticks are a mixed bag if you'll pardon the pun or eclectic if you won't.

There's seven of them (one girl) all hailing from different parts of England and Ireland and they have a collective surname count of one. The surname in question belongs to their congos/didge player. It's Bog.

His first name is Pete. Geddit? Yep, we're talking r*gg** t*gg** here. They've been on stage for less than ten minutes and already I want to go home to my Brian Eno albums. The sound is dense and cluttered, the crowd (virtually indistinguishable from the band) even more so and my night, it seems, is wasted.

Anyway, someone buys me a pint so I stay for a bit and then I'm handed a joint so I stay a bit longer and then . . . you know how it goes. It goes crazy . . .

Once their sound problems were sorted and their nervousness was overcome, the Big Bag Of Sticks underwent a not very slow and not very subtle aural evolutionary process. In the beginning there was a loud folky trad-ish type sound. Then there was a brilliant ska number called 'Mentally Paralysed'. Next thing, they were rapping.

And just when I thought I'd found a pigeonhole wide enough to accommodate them, they did a few reggae numbers. This was the live equivalent of a "Now, That's . . . " compilation album. Only louder. There are no hidden meanings in the songs and no great messages. Like Julian Cope, they were born to entertain, so here they go. And when they go, everything goes.

The greatest band in the world? Not a chance.

The greatest live band in the world? No, but far from being the worst.