Essex boys the Bohicas make an early thirtysomething feel old. They recycle the indie rock’n’roll retroisms of a tide of bands that, only a decade ago, were washed up in the wake of the White Stripes, the Strokes and the Libertine. Beanpole frontman Dominic McGuinness is even prone to the odd Johnny Borrellesque obnoxious soundbite for added period authenticity. “A van full of rock stars on a dual carriageway has me wet with desire,” he recently told one interviewer, tongue hopefully somewhere near cheek.
You’d have to be entirely immune to the timeless pleasure of an arse-shaking bluesy guitar riff and a hurtling drum beat not to enjoy Where You At, its loquacious lyric spilling from McGuinness’s lips like lukewarm lager after an overenthusiastic swig. During most of the Bohicas’ songs, it’s guitarist Dominic John whom you can’t take your eyes off. Wearing leather trews and broad-rimmed black hat, shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, he seems to be invoking the image of Clarence Clemons on the sleeve of Born to Run.
It’s easy to see the band has spark, and why Domino signed them with commensurate haste (their debut album is due in August). Just don’t go looking for hidden depths or variety, because it doesn’t take the Bohicas long to start sounding samey – never a good sign for a group who are still only playing 30-minute sets without any presumption of being called back for an encore.
Red Raw’s clanging chords crib Nirvana’s Lithium, while tonight’s standout track XXX could be a mucky back-alley fumble between Neu’s Hallogallo and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club with its motorik beat and screaming, fuzzed-out pitch bends. But McGuinness soon tires of the more nuanced stuff, proclaiming, “Enough of those fucking slow jams”, and leads a frantic charge to the finish with Upside Down, To Die For and Swarm. However far the Bohicas go, you fancy they’ll get there in a hurry.
• At Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff, on 1 June. Box office: 029-2023 2199. Then touring.
