Bloody typical. You spend an entire day working yourself down into a state of intense depression to be on the Jezebel's level and what happens? You turn up, realize there isn't anything remotely moody or broody about the band, and feel like that twat in the gorilla suit at a toga party. 

Forsooth, 'tis a beautiful rather than baleful evening. The audience doesn't sweat, they merely ooze heaven-scented perspiration. Michael and Jay Aston - good to see the latter back after the Bucks Fizz fisaco - play the luscious, preening sibling hosts. 

One is blond. The other isn't. As their names aren't tattooed on their foreheads it's impossible for the uninitiated to decide who's who. Nor does it matter when each singer's behavior is as shocking as the other's. The boys out-pout an entire issue of Cosmopolitan, sensuously reveal a silky stomach during the FIRST SONG, and the blond one has severe problems with ooops-a-daisy shirt buttons throughout the set. Tarts. 

If a cluster of Ron Wood shag pile hairstyles doesn't indicate their musical direction then you haven't got an 'A' level in geography. Thanks (but no thanks) to some monstrous drumming and belligerently abrasive geetar effects, the Jezebels decibel level is high and climbing over-the-top into the land of Glam Rawk 'n' Roll free-for-alls. 

At times they're a mile TOO polished, veering disconcertingly clese to Bon Jovi's airheaded airspace. At the other end of the scale, the rough-edged Jezebel's are more Dogs D'Amour with added class. That's a compliment by the way. The middle ground, one assumes, is where their Goth beginnings meet West Coast socializing. This 'Motion Of Love' and the splendidly palatable 'Desire' - all taunts and teases on a shadowy dance floor - are the show-stealing offspring. 

Lipstick lovin' sleazeballs, yes. Bimbos no. Perfectly odd and almost oddly perfect, beauty is in the thigh of the beholder. 

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