Wire Jesus are a favourite of mine, so it was a shame that they managed to lose their cellist, a victim of dodgy sat-nav technology and the gridlocked, Dantean rabbit-warren that is the Reading road system. The group performed pretty well as a five-piece (two singing guitarists, bass, drums and keys), although the sonority of the cello was missed on several occasions. They have a varied repertoire, ranging from Arcade Fire ecstasy to Deacon Blue whimsy (singer Mike Murray has a pronounced transatlantic twang in the style of Ricky Ross), and they are at their best when creating mighty walls of sound, for which Tim Perkins’ cello is essential. For that reason, one or two songs tonight verged on the underpowered, even twee side. Still, the majority of the tunes remain treasurable, and there were plenty of highlights, including the ultra-slick harmonies of Mike and Amy, Nicole’s frenetic cranking of her harmonium on the superb closer “Jenny’s Ghost” and bassist Tiki’s somewhat boozy banter, sample “only five of us tonight, still that means we get paid more…..”.

I would have paid Bowling Green’s Cage the Elephant anything not to play, but it couldn’t be helped. For the record, a collection of skinny longhairs made initially engaging and perfectly crafted Dadrock (Grandadrock?) in the Rolling Stones/AC/DC mould, complete with silly posing, dry ice-drenched stage and even (Lord love them!) a spoken intro on the lines of Spinal Tap’s Stonehenge. Towards the end, they varied the routine with a cocky, disco-influenced motormouth rant borrowed from Reverend and the Makers, but this brief nod to modernity was quickly followed by a V-sign as they played the last fifty-five minutes of Free Bird (or so it felt like) to complete a largely forgettable set.

Ulysses S. Grant (American Civil War general, binge drinker and occasional president of the United States) was once wandering in the Mexican desert when he heard the sound of wolves howling. His companion asked him how many he thought were making the din: Grant thought fifty, but replied “twenty” in case his pal thought he was a big baby (this was before Shiloh). It turned out there were only two. I suspect he would have made the same mistake had he chanced on the Raveonettes from a distance, as for a nominal two-piece they make a tremendous sound, covering all the aural spectrum in attractive, trance-inducing guitar noise. In addition there was a drummer whom I particularly liked: bearded, bewildered and denied a chair, he was the epitome of stoned-looking coolness. The most memorable aspect of the group is the boy/girl harmonies, which have a Scandinavian iciness to them, in contrast to the warmth of the equally effective pairing in Wire Jesus. The songs are simple, pretty and infernally catchy but are terribly derivative, being almost an effects-laden pastiche of the pop that Buddy Holly and the Everlys were serving up, getting on for half a century ago. A one-trick pony then, but a dashed good trick for all that.