Pardon me for ranting, but I’ve had it up to here with sad indie fucks moaning that their favourite underachievers can’t get a deal/gigs/arrested. Has it ever occurred to them that they’re not doing very well because they’re not very good? This will be nuclear physics to the bloke who berated me the other day for hotpress’ championing of The Hives, a group who in his boorish opinion have been hyped at the expense of superior domestic talent. It’s an argument that goes out the window the moment the Swedes take to the Limelight’s postage stamp-sized stage.

Never mind Ireland, there’s not a band in Europe who can live with Howlin’ Pelle’s mob when they’re in this sort of form. Dressed in regulation black shirts and white ties, The Hives manage to make each of their garage punk anthems sound like the most important sub-three minutes of your life.

Imagine Jonathan Rhys-Meyers doing an Iggy Pop impersonation, and you’ll have some idea of the camp, flailing-limbed buffoonery that Pelle gets up to on stage.