Hair's apparent

TRASH FASHION / THE PUBIC FRINGE / MOTORCYCLE STUNTS, BIRMINGHAM FLAPPER & FIRKIN, 6TH DECEMBER 2005

The Different Kettle Of Fish Super Special Christmas Fandango - and quite possibly the last ever ADKOF night - doesn't get off to the best of starts.

First of all, on entry we're confronted with a sign which reads: "Due to bad illness Hooker will not be playing". They are one of the main reasons I've come - and this is the second time they've dropped out and left ADKOF impressario Phill in a bit of a pickle. He's done his best to ascertain the validity of the aforementioned "bad illness" - apparently the drummer has an abcessed tooth and sounded dreadful on the phone - even going so far as to research the condition online.

Second of all, Motorcycle Stunts. An indication of what they're all about: stool-perching and furrowed brows feature heavily. There are the occasional glimpses of something more promising, and the vocalist's voice is not without power (though his lyrics are), but sadly for the most part it's over-serious, over-emotive, under-written and under-imagined stodge. And to lay claim to a band name that connotes excitement and daring - you familiar with the Trades Descriptions Act, lads?

A tad harsh? Well, perhaps. Because as it turns out, they're the perfect opening act for what follows. And what follows is quite remarkable.

The Pubic Fringe are personal favourites of eccentric curmudgeon Mark E Smith of The Fall, with whom they've toured, and approximately thirty seconds into their set they're one of mine too. Immaculately abrasive yet extraordinarily tight, they're a brutal psychobilly covers band roughly (and that's the operative word here) in the mould of The Cramps with nods and winks in the direction of The Birthday Party and The Stooges.

They sound like they've forgotten to take their medication. Like there's other people's skin under their fingernails. Like if they weren't on stage they'd be in the gutter eating dog-ends.

Vocalist Nazi Sinatra is the inevitable focal point. Clad in a tasselled cowboy shirt, he lurches back and forth apparently using the mic stand for support and chainsmoking, a fact which immediately explains his extraordinary rasping growl.

The set careers through a series of stomping three-minute songs before reaching its peak with a much longer number about "old-time religion" which might be what The Doors would have sounded like (criminally lame rock hack cliche alert!) had they experimented with ketamine rather than LSD and spent their days chewing their own arms off.

Under the circumstances, for me to stand tapping my foot and nodding my head is akin to saying "Excuse me, would you mind leaving me alone - there's a good chap" while being savaged by a rabid pitbull. This music demands a rather less restrained and polite reaction. Curse that English reserve.

A remarkable band, then. And, perhaps most remarkably, they're from Stourbridge.

And then from the sublime to the ridiculous.

Trash Fashion left Birmingham for London seeking fame and fortune like modern day Dick Whittingtons, and their homecoming has enticed a number of "the Custerati" (copyright Phill) to stray from their spiritual home and into the sort of grotty venue they'd normally avoid at all costs. And that means assymmetrical haircuts and unusual and colourful mix 'n' match clothing. Of course, they only appear from upstairs once The Pubic Fringe have exited stage right. What a shame - it would have been entertaining to have watched them getting a new arsehole torn.

When Trash Fashion appear, they too are quite something visually. A guitarist with a bizarre ponytail-meets-Kajagoogoo haircut, a single dangly earring and a bright orange jumpsuit. A vocalist wearing a black hat, a skeleton mask, a pair of shades and a long black mac, soon discarded to reveal nothing but a pair of black 80s football shorts. And, er, a drummer with a mohawk.

And when they start playing, my first thought is of EMF gone cock rock.

My next thought is that they're the band Dan Ashcroft would unequivocally slate in Sugarape only for the Nathan Barleys of this world to read the piece, take it as an ironic commentary and flock to their gigs for fear of missing out on the hippest thing going. The idiots.

To be fair to Trash Fashion, they're not exactly serious, singing about "meat and two veg" and ditching the guitars mid-set and coming over like an electro Goldie Lookin Chain for a song about rave culture.

It's about this point when my interest is at its peak (though even then I'm viewing them with detachment if not suspicion from the back of the room), but it soon goes downhill again, and the utterly rubbish encore is an awful mistake.

The moral of the evening's tale? Beware the tide of fashion - it's often more honourable and infinitely more dignified to be washed up on the shore than to strive to stay at the crest of the wave.

To mark the death of ADKOF, on leaving the venue Phill ceremoniously launches a leftover mince pie into the canal (oh sorry, did I forget to mention that you missed out on food too?). Its silver foil tray glints in the moonlight as the baked goods arc towards the water. We laugh (though internally several tears are shed) and walk off into the night.

Who knows what happened next. I like to think that the pie rose Excalibur-like from the depths, and that ADKOF will live on - though not like some freakish Frankenstein's monster that runs amok out of the control of its creator, obviously...