The Hives

Pardon me for ranting, but I’ve had it up to here with sad indie fucks moaning that their favourite underachievers can’t get a deal/gigs/arrested. Has it ever occurred to them that they’re not doing very well because they’re not very good? This will be nuclear physics to the bloke who berated me the other day for hotpress’ championing of The Hives, a group who in his boorish opinion have been hyped at the expense of superior domestic talent. It’s an argument that goes out the window the moment the Swedes take to the Limelight’s postage stamp-sized stage.

Never mind Ireland, there’s not a band in Europe who can live with Howlin’ Pelle’s mob when they’re in this sort of form. Dressed in regulation black shirts and white ties, The Hives manage to make each of their garage punk anthems sound like the most important sub-three minutes of your life.

Imagine Jonathan Rhys-Meyers doing an Iggy Pop impersonation, and you’ll have some idea of the camp, flailing-limbed buffoonery that Pelle gets up to on stage.

“You love us,” he deadpans. “That is understandable. You come from a small town, you crave excitement.”

It’s no one man show, though, with Nicholaus “Master Of The Telecaster” Arson, Dr. Matt Destruction, Vigilante Carlstroem and Chris “The Human Metronome” Dangerous also behaving like men who’ve necked a bottle of Buckfast between them. Which, it later transpires, they have courtesy of a gift from the BBC Across The Line team.

With all the aerobics that’s going on, it’s easy to forget that our Scandinavian chums have a clutch of killer tunes – albeit ones which are largely interchangeable. If The Hives are to avoid becoming the noughties’ Ramones – not a bad complaint, really – a few new tricks need to be added to their musical repertoire.

Tonight they climax with a cover of The Saints’ ‘Lost & Found’ and a ‘Hate To Say I Told You So’ that’s so life-affirming it has even David Holmes idiot-dancing down the back.