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Cud London ULU

They're getting there. After what feels like several decades of toiling around Britain's toilets, Leeds ever-hopefuls finally appear set to clamber a few rickety steps up that slippery ladder, gaining followers as rapidly as the Green Party Reports have filtered through about manic Northern shows, and for sure singer Carl's lovebeads, purple loons and flowerpower shirt suggests that the quartet have their syringe poised over the quivering arm of public acceptance.

Tonight they're propping up a marvellously in-form Family Cat and being confronted by a steady stream of cardboard fish and wimpy stagedivers while bouncers take the rather unorthodox step of throwing glasses at enthusiasts dancing high on the speakers. And merry mayhem If is too - Cud have had time to define and perfect their sound, chiselling away at an idiosyncratic niche. Muscular basslines dominate the fray, sweaty, sinewy sorts which kick viciously and ask questions later while a scratchy, insistent guitar tangos with sternly flexible beats.

United with Carl s curiously hollering vocals, Cud provide a squat, thrusting barrage, as chunky as a plateful of Pat and slyly straddling the tine between noise terrorism and danceable sensibilities,

Unfortunately, going on a few shows' experience, Cud only have one decent song: 'Only A Prawn In Whitby' is a brilliant surge, an insane duel between 'Rawhide' and something equally as addictive which stands head, shoulders and navel above everything else. Even 'Strange Kinda Love' is merely a snippet of a coherent chorus on a rollercoaster ride of intense aggression while 90 per cent of the remainder of their set is like yer typical lager lout - more brawn than beauty and forever threatening aural GBH.

It's like Stump chucking Chic and marrying Megadeth, it gets the toe topping, the groin grinding and the head throbbing, but so does a swift kick in the crotch Yeah, they'll get 'there', but not all o! us will follow.

Simon Williams