Andrew WK, Lostprophets, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, The Coral

Uncle Louis may be of the opinion that rock ‘n’ roll is dead, but there are 2,000 extremely vocal people in The Ambassador tonight who’d disagree with him. That four relatively unknown bands can draw such a big – and young – crowd suggests that far from pushing up the daisies, the devil’s music is in the rudest of health.

There are six people in opening act The Coral, but that’s where any similarity with manufactured RTE popsters ends. It’s almost mandatory if you’re from Liverpool to be influenced by The La’s and, sure enough, there are moments when you’d swear that Lee Mavers is up there on stage. There’s also strong evidence that they own Love and Jefferson Airplane’s back catalogue – although, sadly, not their songwriting dexterity.

Not only is it the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s first gig outside of Ireland, but with drummer Nick Jago unable to travel because of visa difficulties, the Californians have had to bring in ex-Verve man Pete Salisbury as a make-do replacement. Not that you’d notice from their incendiary performance, which manages to overcome both lousy sound and some muppet’s decision to the leave the upstairs house lights on. Thankfully, by the time the closing ‘Whatever Happened To My Rock ‘N’ Roll (Punk Rock Song)’ comes around, the strobes are allowed to do their work and we’re treated to an audio-visual bombardment that makes complete sense of the Ride and Jesus & Mary Chain comparisons. The roars of approval suggest that the next time they’re in The Ambassador it’ll be as headliners.

The moshing fraternity love ‘em, but to these ears Lostprophets are just a pale Anglo-Saxon imitation of the rap metal bands that are cleaning up so comprehensively at the moment in the States. For all of their youthful bluster, the ‘Proffies don’t have the charisma or punch-the-air anthems to trouble the Stainds and Limp Bizkits of this world.

Which brings us to Andrew WK or, as he’ll now be known round these parts, Andrew WWF. Dressed from head to toe in rather grubby white, the boy Wilkes-Krier is so unrelentingly OTT that you almost suspect him and his Bermuda-shirted mates are a parody. If you left your cynicism at home, though, the likes of ‘Party Hard’, ‘Girl’s Own Love’ and ‘Ready To Die’ were probably the most glorious rock ‘n’ roll noise you’ve heard in an aeon. Dumb, cliché-ridden and totally, totally wonderful.