Paul St Paul and the Apostles

Last night I went to see the amazing Paul St Paul and the Apostles play in Camden. And they were amazing. They mimed their way through a Rocky Horror-meets-Prince full-on revue, complete with interludes, skits, co-ordinated routines, and vampy costumes.

Lead singer Paul St Paul is an old fashioned star. Like Leif Garrett or one of the holy Davids Essex or Cassidy, that I only ever read about in dusty teen annuals I found in charity shops, he has the sincerity to go with the innate campness every truly great frontman needs. He's the kind of curly-locked, limpid-eyed, popboy that makes confused and hormone-soaked pre-teen girls kiss posters every night, and their older brothers to think very hard about their sexuality. And if his 'man perm' never gets a chance to spawn a thousand copies, the world is truly an unfair and cruel place.

The rest of the band, or 'company' really, are a motley crew of dandies, fops, and tremendously talented dancers. They'd rather scatter glitter around than beer, and every twitch of every limb is pinpoint accurate.

I guess the band will be described as "post Scissor Sisters and Mika" gay. But what they do is more akin to a 70s punk revue or happening. More 'performance art' if that wasn't a dirty word. Their music is all disco beats, searing guitar solos and emotive vocals, and their songs have titles like "Let's Pretend We're Gay". They're the kind of band who make a video advertisement for their London show (it's below). The kind of band who appreciate that the truly great disco songs are steeped in melancholy.

I love them, and I dearly want to see them again. I'm sure they'll be signed to a huge label and play venues more equipped to deal with their fabulously de trop stage show very soon, but I'm really happy to have seen them living out their glorious over ambitions in a teenier arena.