It's unclear if guitarist James Woodrow's bumbling demeanour is genuine or an act. "Gosh, this is all very nice," he murmurs as he and his quartet take the stage. "We're Candytime and you're the audience, eh? Right then, what shall we do?"

What Woodrow and his band do is pleasant enough. In the first half, obscure oldies; in the second, surreal originals. The latter are frequently presaged with an explanation of the imaginary stories that inspired them, including the tale of a hallucinating teddy bear bitten by a plastic mosquito in a supermarket. Perhaps Woodrow, with his posh accent and child-like vignettes, sees himself as the jazz Syd Barrett.

The music itself is quirky in a convoluted sort of way, relying on apparently gratuitous stylistic juxtapositions. Hard bop, funk, free jazz and fusion flit by. Saxophonist Tim Holmes does not demonstrate a penchant for emotional extremes, preferring well-crafted and efficient solos. Phil Scragg's electric bass and Chris Baron's mathematically precise drumming form a twisting undergrowth of cross rhythms, and Woodrow chimes in with glassy chords that sound uncannily like an electric piano.

Woodrow's choice of non-original material reveals a penchant for excavating the darker corners of the jazz repertoire. A Miles Davis obscurity called Fun proves a rhythmical obstacle course with a devious chord sequence, but too episodic to have any real coherence.

Woodrow maintains his bumbling persona to the end, apologising for his malfunctioning amplifier, forgetting to take his CDs into the lobby during the interval, and continuing to spin his faintly disturbing narratives between numbers. His music strives to match him in barmy eccentricity, but often falls short, managing instead to sound both workmanlike and ultimately rather impenetrable.

&#'183; At the Bear, Bristol, April 4 (0117-987 7796). Then touring.