Spector, Shacklewell Arms, London

Third time’s a charm, right? After previously regaling our eardrums with Les Incompétents and Ox.Eagle.Lion.Man, Frederick Macpherson has finally ditched the dodgy fake surnames and returns to the stage with his alternative proposition for musical dominance, Spector. And as it happens, it’s a teeny tiny stage, tucked away in the backroom of Dalston’s Shacklewell Arms.

It’s clear from the outset of proceedings that Spector are designed for a more spacious environment, they’re packed in like sardines, we’re packed in like sardines, the Kaiser Chiefs are packed in like sardines. The latter’s attendance is presumably accounted for after Spector charmed their cotton socks off during this summer’s Chiefs support slot, which has doubtless given tonight’s headliners a taste for the size of stage they seem destined to fill in future.

Now if truth be told, it’s actually pretty easy to charm your way into my record collection; I’m such a sucker for an intelligent frontman. And Fred has certainly used his previous employers to hone the art of witty, self deprecating stage banter, he’s appearing tonight as the younger, slightly geekier, brother of Art Brut’s Eddie Argos. So that battle is swiftly fought and won, it seems. Spector have even less of a fight for the affections of the rest of the audience, this being a home town crowd, seemingly made up of family and friends, and the uninformed few appear to be in the minority.

So whilst the expectation might be for only early releases ‘What You Wanted’ and ‘Never Fade Away’ to receive a good reaction tonight, in actuality there’s clearly a lot of love in the room for the whole set, in particular ‘Celestine’ and ‘Chevy Thunder’. Defining Spector, who bare no relation to any of their obvious namesakes (either Regina with a ‘k’ or Phil), isn’t too easy to pin down either - which in itself is a good thing - at times they’re a little New-New-Wave, a times a little Springsteen, at times a little bit (whisper it) Killers. But even in this pocket-sized venue, there’s people air punching, it’s impossible to locate a soul whose legs aren’t involuntarily dancing, and the braver members of the audience have even managed to form a small, but perfectly formed mosh-pit at the front.

But nothing is ever perfect, and Spector are about to throw a massive elephant into the room. And it’s not even like they’re unaware that they’re doing it, as Fred informs us that his booking agent has told them that, should they ever perform this cover again, they’re on their own. Let’s just leave it at this, unless you’re a contestant on the X Factor, you should never, ever, ever think that covering Kings Of Leon is a good idea. It doesn’t matter how proficient you are, and Spector are proficient make no mistake, it’ll always be nothing less than horrible.

So the less said about that, the better. On the strength of the band’s own compositions, all eight of them displayed tonight, they’re a far more interesting proposition on their own merits, anyway. We filter into the night, safe in the knowledge that we’re unlikely to catch Spector in a venue of that size again, and that we’ve all been part of something a little bit special. Kings Of Leon aside, of course.