The music industry's herd mentality can never be understated. Currently crowding the indie clubs are bands adopting the Hives' blueprint. The Bandits' sound is based on the same music that inspired the post-Hives deluge: raucous rhythm and blues. But the Bandits are part of the same Scouse renaissance as the Coral; like their Mercury prize-nominated chums, their outlook is marijuana-addled and idiosyncratic.

They have great songs to spare, such as the cranky, darkly psychedelic Free Me Rain. Their country-style tracks are tuneful and charming, yet warped and curiously anglicised - Nashville by way of a smoke-filled Merseyside bedroom. Unlike the sharp-suited Hives, they are never going to feature on anyone's best-dressed list. They look like people who have found themselves on stage as the result of a complicated misunderstanding, yet have manfully determined to give it their best shot.

Singer Gary Murphy alternates between unleashing a gravelly roar and blinking at the spotlights with a confused expression. Perhaps he recognises the audience. Half of Liverpool seems to have decamped to Camden. Guitarist John Robertson looks desperately uncool in a knitted hat with earflaps; crucially, as he thrashes his guitar, he looks as though he really doesn't care.

Ignoring rock's accepted boundaries of good taste seems to be a habit of the Bandits, particularly in their closing song. Someone once remarked that the Clash's songs were like an old electric fire - they should come with a sticker that says "Do Not Cover". That goes double for Guns of Brixton, Clash bassist Paul Simonon's misguided attempt to empathise with London's Jamaican community by singing in a ridiculous here-come-de-Lilt-man patois. Covered by a ramshackle gang of pasty Scousers, it should be unlistenably preposterous. The Bandits set about it with such deranged enthusiasm that it is impossible not to be won over.