Nine Black Alps take their name from a poem in Sylvia Plath's posthumous collection Ariel, which is either an intriguing move for a young Mancunian rock band, or straight off the default reading list for the postgraduate course in "no one understands me".

They've been playing together for about a year, have one independent single and a freshly inked deal with Island Records under their belts and they're all in their early 20s. They are, of course, a very young band and, unfortunately, it's in the nature of British music that young bands are shoved half-formed into the spotlight. In fact, that happens increasingly now that it is deemed enough for bands simply to recycle their influences - a frequent feature of starting out. As they mature, they should hit on a sound which, while probably laden with clues as to its origins, is more recognisably their own.

You can see the thinking behind Nine Black Alps's premature appearance: Kurt Cobain is dead, grunge was over a decade ago, and no one is ever going to see Nirvana play again. Which makes it fine for a new band to churn out callow Nirvana pastiches that should never have left the rehearsal room.

In their favour, Nine Black Alps are, as they say, tight - impressively so given their collective youth. They tear through pneumatic, angular riffs with gusto and know how to craft a hook. But a worrying two-thirds of the set is almost comically second-hand. It's a shame, because there are hints that something considerably more interesting might blossom monstrously from these beginnings, and the mid-set run of songs that begins with Headlights displays a winning tunefulness and the potentially ferocious talents of the band's two guitarists. It would be heartening to think Nine Black Alps will get the chance to grow up with some dignity, because they may be better even than they know.

· At APU, Cambridge (01223 511511), tomorrow. Then touring.