Crocodiles, Old Blue Last, London

Are you already reviewing this in your head?
Yeah.
Yeah? Well that in that case I’d be thinking: hmmmmmmmmm.

It’s a fine line between being considered, as an artist, a knob or the coolest. An important part of the assessment comes down to the performer’s interaction with the crowd: too much banter and you’re desperate, not enough and you’re an arrogant wanker. It’s a tough one to work. Particularly when the gigs are just beginning, and securing your fanbase is vital.

The Old Blue Last is rammed. Spilling over with eager East-side musos and fashionistas. Everyone is immaculately dressed, and everyone is saying the right things. For a potential fanbase, this would be a handy one, but a tough one to win over, that’s for sure. San Diego’s Crocodiles have a couple bits on their side though: they’re from the “trendy” West Coast, they were tipped by nu-noise kings No Age and they’re very good looking. Formed of two dudes (Charles Rowell and Brandon Welchez), Crocodiles’ sound consists of loud guitar distortion over insistent looping and pedal-fiddling, accompanied by altered vocals. Drone pop, some call it. Their lack in props is thus compensated for by an unmistakable male bravado. Wearing sunglasses, both Rowell and Welchez refuse to smile. Wearing their jackets, they fight the heat. And it is really, very hot.

“So our loop machine is broken.” Mumbles an indifferent Welchez, frontman and beat programmer. Oops. (Forewarning of a microphone malfunction and subsequent loss of half a song’s vox.) Rowell ignores this and continues producing incessant whinges from his guitar. Squeek. The song that shot them to the cooler side of unknown, ‘Neon Jesus’, opens the set. The audience don’t so much dance as nod approvingly - yes, this is the one you’re supposed to like. Some even tap their heels. But no one moves more than they have to to prove they’re paying attention. Self-awareness is the game.

The band follow this with songs off their mixed-reviewed debut. ‘Soft Skull (In My Room)’, ‘Summer Of Hate’ among others, with the anthemic ‘I Wanna Kill’ drawing the evening to a close. The set has flown past; no pauses between tracks, but rather a continued high pitched drone emitting from one of the pedals. No acknowledging of the crowd. The only signs of life are Welchez’s earnest dancing. Throwing himself around the stage, clapping, air drumming, the names that spring to mind are unexpected; Ian Brown circa Stone Roses, Gallagher Brothers and Bobby Gillespie… Northern britpop goes to San Deeee? Maybe the guys YouTube’d “cool”.

Fascinating to watch, the leaving sentiment is that of confusion. Was that a “fuck you” or a “please like us”? Either way, there is promise. They should probably get their tech sorted first though.