In a rare combination of wit and soft-porn, working-class wank-mag Hustler once used the immortal tag-line, ‘Less Rabbit and More Beaver’ to attract the sleazebags away from the marginally-more-respectable Playboy, with its wholesome bunny-girls and weighty Norman Mailer-penned literary critiques. This week’s motto for Oxfordbands.com might be ‘Less Easter Bunny and More Beaver Fuel‘, with Leigh Alexander’s scuzzy punk rockers’ EP being reviewed (none-too-gently) here a few days ago, and as a second installment, our thoughts on their launch gig at the Bully.

Late-of-Birmingham troubadour Faceometer began proceedings with an uneven set of whimsical acoustic ballads, sung in a strange Tom Lehrer drawl. His take on the life of romantic polymath William Blake delighted the more literary types, but his excursion into spoken word, with a staggeringly dull tale concerning phone-sex workers (is this building up to be the sleaziest review ever on Oxfordbands.com?) was simply embarrassing. The best moment occurred during the closing track with the incorporation of various ad-hoc percussionists extracted from the audience, including a nonchalant Tim Lovegrove (Junkie Brush) who wandered straight from the Cowley Road onto the drum kit and provided the tune with a lovely swinging groove. A hit-and-miss act then, but at least he ended on a high.

Manic rawk-monsters Beelzebozo then took over, providing a good deal of uncomplicated entertainment, not to say decibels. Like their presumed antecedents Spinal Tap they seem to be affectionately sending up the theatrical nonsense that is heavy metal, but there’s an underlying commitment to their music which stops them being as offensively knowing as, for example, The Darkness. They combine a crowd of seventies rock influences with a lead singer who sounds rather like Dave Grohl during the shouty bits of the Foo Fighters, and they are impossible to dislike. There’s even the odd vocal harmony in there, so it’s not all hellfire and sulphur.

So to the EP launchers, Beaver Fuel. Some of the elements in this group are strong; Alexander has a nice line in lugubrious ballads which Peter Cook’s E.L. Wisty might have rejected as too otherworldly. Exhibit A is the notorious ‘I Want to Live in Your Buttcrack’, which is mostly excruciating but has undeniable cult appeal. The musicianship is pretty decent too, with the lead guitarist showing on the night that he could produce lively solos on demand, and bassist James Serjeant providing both solid musical support and a bit of stage interest, initiating the first on-stage pillow fight I’ve ever encountered (although I was on the receiving end of a fusillade of paper aeroplanes launched by The Young Knives a few years back).

Still, with all these plus points, it has to be said that the first few songs went for nothing, simply because Alexander’s baritone growl couldn’t cut through the racket of two electric guitars playing punky chords at once. It was noticeable that when the lead guitarist shut up during the vocal sections, you could actually hear some of what Leigh was blethering on about, and in a band that cares so much about the lyrics, vocal audibility should be a top priority. One or two of the quieter songs even reminded me of the Pixies, which is always welcome, although a brief mid-set detour into jazz felt like a trip down a cul-de-sac. Perhaps Alexander needs to sort his songs into material for band and solo treatment, as it’s a shame to hear (or rather, not hear) clever lyrics wandering like orphans in a sonic storm.