I swear, if The Ramones and The Ronettes had ever got it on, their baby would sound like Hinds - a glorious garagey, punky, souly baby.
Their songs are never long enough for you to bore of them; a simple and effective trick that works well against their ramshackle delivery. They kick off with the rowdy, distorted Warning With The Curling, reminiscent of the C86 bands of the mid-80’s and the crowd is totally on board. Next up is Trippy Gum, which (as with most of their songs) is a tempo teasing, lo-fi mash-up of raucous high energy garage and slow, heady Balearic - how that’s even possible, I’m still not quite sure. The set moves swiftly and they churn out Fat Calmed Kiddos, Warts and Between Cans with typical charm - the latter a vigorous rendition, ensuring the vocalists get a massive workout.
From there, the scrunchie-clad four-piece unleash a stack of riotous tunes that female-driven post-punksters such as The Slits and The Raincoats would have been proud of. And those bands would certainly have forgiven the missed notes, or the mis-struck chords (such as on Chili Town), because Hinds’ allure is not in their skilled musicianship, but in their magnetism and vitality. Which they deliver by the freight-load.