Boil down the totally thumbs up-worthy release of Barely Regal‘s compilation to these three bands and you’ve got a pretty good indication of where their heads are at: a heavy grounding in rock, with room for the odd experimenter or flashy newcomer. Samoans certainly come with lashings of power rock and shouting but they’re a much more interesting beast than that: a massive amount of fret-tapping gets smuggled in, tricksy guitar lines that weave in and out of jerky time structures to pretty ace effect. It’s this mix of balls out rock action and fiddly itchiness that completely wins, and goes some way to distracting you from the supertight-jeaned guitarist continually sticking his arse in the air.

Track down a copy of Theo‘s first EP ‘Order, Echo’ and you’ll be treated to some ultra-pretty music that blurs looped fretwork with gentle strings and clouded out vocals. It’s fantastic, and to the best of my knowledge Sam Knight has never attempted to recreate it onstage. The one man Theo live thing is relentless and monomaniacal, an endless back and forth between guitar parts and battered drums. Zero deviation from his formula is both strength and weakness: while it’s a pure thrill to watch Knight lose himself looping multiple clangs and whipped lines, slinging his guitar across his back to give the kit a rhythmic pasting, spring-loaded bass drum pedal thumping like a giant underground rabbit, the tiniest voice in your head sometimes yearns for more variety. That voice is pretty boring though, and Theo is pretty stellar.

A further voice, this one harder to ignore, keeps whispering through Man Without Country‘s set. “Going to be big, these boys.” That voice is notoriously wrong and slightly pervy, so let’s concentrate: MWC play very high sheen machine pop, waves of frosty synth wrapping around the band, occasional guitar notes picked out and met by insistent, insectoid vocals. Initially keener to revel in the all encompassing plush bath of noise, by song three they’re dropping quietly brilliant moves, killer choruses that are barely different to the verses, gradual shifts in mood that creep over you like, oh I dunno, shimmering moss. They have a singer who looks like some sort of hipster sex pest but no matter. Man Without Country gravitate towards smart, a cool hit on a warm night for talent.