This whole “next big rock ’n’ roll thing” has been pissing me off royally of late. Bells have rung out for The Strokes, The White Stripes, The Hives, The Libertines, The Vines and countless other endless/nameless guitar bands and, most recently, for down-under’s The D4.

New Zealand’s answer to garage punk strutted on stage with a swagger more full of it than a 13 year-old with his dad’s porn stash. Wasting no time, the quartet immediately launched into a veritable barrage of brutal two-minute masterpieces, each a vial of aural guarana lapped up feverishly by the gluttonous crowd. (Party pieces include the raucous ‘Rock’n’roll Motherfucker’ and the cracking ‘Get Loose’)

If, hypothetically speaking, there was some cosmic smelt involving Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist, Sid Vicious and half of The Descendents, the phoenix rising from the ashes would invariably be The D4. Born and raised on classic punk amphetamine attitude riffs, their ad hoc, no shit approach makes no excuses for the drips of sweat, buzzing ears and strained neck muscles it leaves in it’s wake – not that we’d ever want it to. Forget chocolate, this is death by kick drum. And it fucking rocks.