Ring ring! “Hello, Clwb Ifor Bach.” “Hi, do you know who’s supporting Crocodiles tonight?” “Yeah, it’s er, Fuzzybirds. I think.” Such is the fun of being a last minute support to a last minute booking, the Fuzzbirds start playing to a highly exclusive audience (me), before, thankfully, three hipsters turn up and start talking loudly at the bar. The band add to this atmosphere of indifference by playing as if in a rehearsal room; their singer in particular seems stricken by either nerves, aloofness or clinical depression, hardly the best if your vocal style resembles a dull bell clanging. It’s all a little sad as their medieval jangle has undergone a more muscular injection of late, snaking guitar lines lending some weight, leading to the odd flash of competency.

For a supposedly ultracool band of firebrands, Crocodiles have an impressively inauthentic live set up going: Brandon Welchez and Charles Rowland are, essentially, dancing over an MP3 player. In this they are commendably 100% behind themselves, whether it be adding a couple of guitar notes to their plastic wall of noise, or shouting into the echoing mic. Musically the first couple of songs are nicely straightforward screes of simple beats and blocks of flat abrasiveness, stuttering amid simple call outs. They’re weirdly up tempo, almost disco, and it’s an easy but pleasing thrill when Rowland bends over and lets a feedback shriek out of an effects pedal. There’s a little floundering with dual guitars before things devolve fully: the last two songs are the spit of the Cult. What does it all mean? Crocodiles are weirdly unsatisfying, like a cake made from air, and as they pass through Cardiff you can hear the voices of Britain’s towns: “They’re, you know, alright.”