CUD, Edinburgh Calton Studies

THERE ARE many wonders in this world to behold but none can match the sight of Carl Puttnam in full flow. Bestriding the stage, a bespectacled, golden-haired hero of Greek legend, resplendent in lavender velvet breeks and a shirt of dubious virtue but intruiging texture, Puttnam is Jim Morrison, no longer wallowing in a Parisian bath-tub but working in a Golf professional's shop in the mid-'70s. Tony Jacklin - tuned in, turned on... and four under par.

Possessed. When the music grips him in its thrall, his body takes over, leaving Puttnam as bemused and bedazzled as the rest of us. The lizard king incarnate, exploring the joys of not one but two artificial hip relacements. If sex is horizontal dancing, then Puttnam's a pervert.

And yet Cud are not very good. Too polite and too cerebral. with a hint of the anal-retentive Blue Aeroplanes, they're a bit too clever for their own good. What starts off as intruiging ends up merely irritating and the theatricality of Puttnam's voice becomes a bore. There's an overwhelming sense of craftsmen at work, of a music full of nods, winks and nudges that even on the likes of 'Robinson Crusoe' and ' Magic' lacks any kind of spontaneity, tension or danger.

Willfully contrary, almost willingly eccentric, all that remains of Cud when they leave the stage is the Cheshire cat grin of Carl Puttnam, lost in the looking glass.

Charlie Endell