Live Review: Gay Paris, The Peep Tempel, Rocking Horse & The Baby Dolls

Rocking Horse & The Baby Dolls kicked off with a Blues Brothers-style introduction and the likeness to Clairy Browne & The Bangin' Rackettes was immediate. Hidden behind the synchronised fembots were some deep funk skills in the three-piece band. Amazing vocals, great sound but they don't quite sell the whole lounge act thing. Why try so hard to be Amy Winehouse when you're Doris Day? Embrace the Doc Martens and nose rings that the heels and shimmer dresses got ditched for as soon as they were off stage.

The Peep Tempel scared the crap outta everyone with a wall of fuzz and reverb. The three-piece were tight. Uptight even. Tight like a stretched rubber band that is thinning at the edges and going to snap at any second. Their sound is swirly bluesy ska, but really there's only one comparison to be made – these guys are the Oz Queens Of The Stone Age, from the manic intensity to the punk groove edge they tread (compare tracks Mission Floyd and Howlin' Belle to get the point). Not that they're a tribute band, they're just that good.

Gay Paris are modern cock rock ready to rub your ears 'til the vinegar stroke. There's an underlying funk rap that screams Primus (My First Wife? She Was A Fox Queen!), but the newer stuff heads more towards chord shredding (The Demarcation Of Joseph Hollybone). Every piece of equipment they had broke, every word they spoke was lewd and the way frontman Wailin' H Monks embraced complete abandon made his message to “Be irresponsible, dance when you can, fuck whoever you want to” completely believable. Their set was energetic and assaulting but somewhat upstaged by the banter “You can't tell me what to do while you've got a shirt on” that led to true tits-out rock'n'roll.