Midway through The Twang's set an altercation erupts. This is not a surprising turn of events: the Birmingham quintet's rise has been fuelled by sensational tales of misbehaviour. Tonight's audience is so rowdy that two bouncers have been posted onstage. Now, lead singer Phil Etheridge complains the barstaff are flicking V signs at him. "The barman's telling me to fuck off," he snaps. One bouncer, wearing ear-defenders and a look for which the phrase long-suffering was invented, taps Etheridge on the shoulder and whispers. "Oh," says Etheridge sheepishly. "You were telling him to fuck off? Sorry, mate."

If they seem unconcerned with maintaining a street-tough image, The Twang seem equally unbothered by the best-new-band-in-Britain plaudits. There is little in the way of posturing onstage. Indeed, it is a moot point as to whether Etheridge's fellow vocalist, Saunders, is currently conscious of anything. His eyes hooded, his expression alternately ecstatic and baffled, he looks the worse for wear. But this does not seem to impede his ability as a vocalist. Dancing frantically, pulling faces, singing at each other, he and Etheridge make for compelling viewing. The music matches. As well as slippery funk beats, U2-ish guitar lines and bursts of Streets-like chatter, everything they play seems to come with a huge, euphoric chorus attached: unreleased songs provoke mass singalongs, Push the Ghost slides into a Brummie-accented cover of Salt and Pepa's Push It. A sense that The Twang are destined for greatness engulfs the venue. As the closing Cloudy Room shifts gear from brooding menace to druggy elation, the bouncer with the ear-defenders starts dancing.

· At the Barfly, Liverpool, on Tuesday (0870 907 0999). Then touring