Fuck it.

I know that's a bad start to a review but I shouldn't be doing this.

Apart from the fact that it's freezing, and raining, I'm getting a cold, and my throat feels as if I've gone down on a hedgehog. I also hate anything that even resembles Salsa. I don't even like the dip. I've never liked any kind of music where someone in the band feels it's perfectly acceptable to blow a whistle at some point during the song, without getting punched in the nuts for his trouble.

And another thing.

My car, poor Elvis the Punto is on its last legs. At the traffic lights the engine roars, as if I'm pumping the accelerator. Sure, I admit, it has it amusing points, like when the car beside you races off down the road, assuming you're revving the engine to beat it out of the lights. Doesn't seem to matter who they are. I got left behind by an octogenarian in one of those three wheeled cars that rose to the challenge and shot off like Bulgaria's first manned rocket. She nearly got wiped out by a bus breaking the lights but had the presence of mind to plough into a cyclist instead.

I'm also late. I've been told the band will be on at 8.30 and it is now 8.35. To be honest, that isn't really a concern. Every band lies about what time they're on. It's an age old tradition and a lie people swallow, like the one about 'sure, I'll tell you when I'm about to come, just keep doing that with your tongue for a couple of more minutes...'

But what the hell. When I reach town without Elvis coughing his last and find some place to park near the venue, my mood has somewhat improved. According to the clock on Manchester Town Hall it is now 8.45. All I need is a cash machine so I can get into the venue. I'd flash my press pass... but I don't have one, so... cash machine it is.

I find one soon enough and am reminded of something I read in the newspaper earlier that day. It seems thieves are actually installing bogus cash machines that look identical to the ones installed by the banks. The paper showed a real one and a fake and they were identical. What's more is this. They are both owned by robbing bastards, the difference being the bank actually sends you a letter when they've robbed you blind with £70.00 worth of charges. I actually rang to complain once, and the person on the other end of the phone, probably in Bangladesh said 'it is best to make sure you have enough money in your account.' I said I did have enough money in the bank until some arse charged me for money I didn't have, and now I have even less.

But that's enough about my problems. Let's get to the venue which is called Cellar Vie. It's on Lloyd Street.

The guy who was taking the money was in a little cubicle. All it needed was a grille across the front and I would have got on my knees and made a confession, assuming there was a priest behind it; I occasionally have a Catholic flashback. There was no priest, just a pale young man who said 'it'll be four pounds for each of you.' This was a bit unsettling seeing as I was on my own. What was he trying to say? That I'm a nice bunch of blokes? He took my money and made a green mark on my hand to prove I'd paid. I went down the short flight of steps and sure enough, the band hadn't started yet. Like I say, bands do not start when you think they are supposed to. The only event that was ever on time was the Big Bang, and even then, we missed it by several billions years.

Cellar Vie turned out to be quite a nice place; full of ambience and great music pumping out from the PA. The Stella was crisp and the crisps were tasty. The bar staff were friendly and no matter how busy it got, they served you quickly. The bar was spacious and well lit, but there were enough intimate little corners to get settled in, if that was your thing. The patrons were young and friendly and none of them smelt of mould. I did notice very few were smoking which is a plus for a lot of people. Not me though, I lit up and started writing only slightly distracted by some young woman who bent over to pick up her purse. The top of a thong appeared briefly. I don't know why, but they make me wince. I'm always amazed that something which looks like it was used in the Second World War to garotte German sentries would have become a form of underwear. I wondered if anybody has ever lost a finger when they got intimate and had a rummage around in some lady's pants? I never could quite understand underwear that looks like it's in danger of giving you a brazilian if you cough. I expect it's my age.

No matter.

The support band is on; a band called Superkings .They play along with the in-house music for a few minutes to get themselves in the swing of things. It's a rap song; which I generally don't like. Rap is like Tourettes Syndrome put to music; either that or you have some great music with some twat talking over it; nursery rhymes from the ghetto.

Superkings, from what I could hear were quite a musically interesting band but because they were the first band up, they got screwed on the sound. They had a cello which could hardly be heard and the guitarist was back far too much in the mix. I don't care how good or bad a band is, sometimes you're just going to lose it all because the sound man couldn't particularly give a shit. At least that's how it came across to me which is a shame because I went to the website and listened to what I should have heard on the night and this is a good band. Different influences weave in and out just like the mournful cello that runs through the songs. I was disappointed for them. At that point I was thinking I wouldn't have let the guy on the desk mix a fucking cake. Then again, I guess it's another tradition that seems to abide, like the one about bands never starting on time; fact is the first band on gets the short end of the stick when it comes to sound.

Musically, they do not seem, to me at least, to be colourful, but this is a good thing. The sound of Superkings, is monochrome; a black and white movie where characters exist within the songs. What I heard for the most part was sombre with an edge to it; a Dickensian sense of the underbelly of music, dusted off and made contemporary by some clever songwriting. Go to their website at this link and listen to 'Good To Have You Home' for the full effect. And for an absolute classic of mood, scene setting and storytelling listen to ' Hit The Ground Running by clicking here.'

I left Superkings doing their thing. By the way, check out their recipe for Sweet Potato, Pear and Taragon Soup (for 6). I  tucked myself away in the far corner of the bar near the cigarette machine (we're old friends) and had another pint. Someone had left a newspaper on top of it, so I had a look. First thing I saw was an advert for breast enlargement. No thank you. But it did bring to mind a picture I once saw of a woman who was so well endowed she looked like a deadheat in a zeppelin race. If Howard Hughes had used her instead of Jayne Mansfield as the template when he was designing the bra, he would have invented the world's first lift and separate wheelbarrow. According to the article, it seems more and more men are having reconstructive surgery, and this is without being on the run from the CIA. Tummy tucks are way up there on the list of things to have done. Strange world we live in. In my day a tummy tuck was accompanied by a sudden exhalation, because it meant someone had just punched you in gut.

Right. Back to the front of the stage for us. The Whiskycats are coming on. They've just been announced with the traditional,'put your hands together for...' line. A roll on the drums, building, the singer chucka chucking on his black Gibson and some people are already dancing. Instant party; just add band and beer and they are off down the straight into the first song. Bass, sax, trumpet and guitar playing. The singer set the tone of the set by having such a good time himself, it's impossible not to be swept along. And the sound is excellent now. Not a note goes astray sliced, diced and tossed into the communal pot of musical joy. There is a real warmth between the band and the people listening, dancing and being blinded by the flash on my camera (sorry). The good feeling is palpable.

There's a kind of Tommy Cooper sleight of hand going on like audience-band, band-audience, such is the obvious affection of those on stage and those off it. The song carries them all along in its jaunty, and dare I say Latin tinged, groove. The song stops and we're off again. No pause. Foot to the floor with the bass pedal, boom boom boom boom, a bit of George Benson on the guitar, and toms are pounding and the horns are calling with a tuneful wail and the Whiskycats slip easily into the “Most Fun Band I've Seen in a Long Time” category. I'm almost tempted to dance myself, but people are having such a good time it would be a shame to spoil it for them by having to see me looking like Houdini trying to escape out of a small bag.

It would be easy to miss, amongst all of this, just how good the musicians are. They were locked in tighter than... a tightly locked thing. And the voice of Matthew, the lead vocalist and guitarist is as perfect a listenable voice as you can get. I would say it is impossible to dislike. It's like one of your mates coming up to you with a great big smile and saying 'hey, I just found a fifty. Would you like half? No wait, fuck it, take it all.' The voice has an intimacy to it, as if each song were a secret shared between mates over a coffee, and the music is one of your favourite tunes playing in the background; something to listen to, during the comfortable silences between old friends.

Matthew himself looked like he sounded, which is comfortable in himself, a naturally charming frontman who, when the second song ended said, 'thank you for the great welcome' and you felt that he meant it.

The drummer started a count in. More than four; probably more than thirty. I lost count; Matthew changed the Gibson for an acoustic and we were off on another trip. I stepped back from the stage to get myself another pint. There was a woman at the bar wearing what looked like a cowboy hat and a pair of shades. I looked down for a guide dog; no dog, so it was a fashion statement. But it was okay. Wearing shades in the dark is fine because the Whiskycats have made it so. The atmosphere is so good you can pose and nobody gives a shit. And besides, there is so much else to look at; the horn section with the glint in their eyes, reflecting the glint on the trumpet  and saxophone; the exquisite bass playing and the drummer, holding it all together, crossing the T's and dotting the I's with deft movements; little fills here and the shimmer of the open high hat slinking out of the tight syncopation; little cherries of detail in an impeccable delivery. All together it's really beautiful in itself.

And I need a piss. I wait till the song ends and then head to the toilet. I notice while I'm in there, the guy who had just finished made for the sink as if to wash his hands, but at the last minute slipped out the door. They're his germs and he's entitled to keep them. I guess it's cheaper than a pet.

When I come back Matthew is announcing a new song called 'Slipped Disco.' It was three minutes of fun; a band that should be taken seriously, not taking themselves very seriously, if you know what I mean. The vibe amongst the band is so good, you can't imagine them in the rehearsal room playing this for the hundredth time, and not having a good time. Their music is like sex. Just because you did it once, doesn't mean you can say 'no. I'll pass. I did it a couple of time in August.' No; you want more; some fast, some slow and both involve a great horn and a pumping rhythm section. You can even do it on your own if you want, like me. Listen, this is music, not sex. I'm listening to 'Locked Out Lover' as I finish this little piece on the Whiskycats off.  You can listen to it by clicking this link

Now, having started the evening in two minds as to if I could be bothered, I'm glad I did. I will say I still don't like Latin music. This, however, is anything but, the Whiskycats take the elements of Latin groove that don't involve some twat with a whistle, and they give it the classy shuffle of jazz. They make it catchy with memorable pop hooks, and slap the whole damn thing on the dance floor with some funk topped off with one of the best, easily digestable voices around at the moment.

The Whiskycats are:

Matthew Whittaker – Vocals and Guitar
Sam Draper – Drums
Piers Moth – Bass
Dave Chapman - Trumpet
Felix Hughes- Saxophone

Visit there Website and for fucks sake... catch them live

www.whiskycats.co.uk

You can also say hello on the MySpace site at

http://www.myspace.com/whiskycats