London Lyceum

And I thought I wouldn't enjoy it! As far as I can recall, I’ve only seen two previous Orange Juice shows: one, a diabolical farce of an evening at the Venue about a year ago, and the other a lacklustre outing at this very same Mecca dance establishment just a few months back.

I'd always found the less immediate, more submerged aspects of Orange Juice more irritating than enticing. I could easily curl up and soak in the profound absurdities that are splattered through their records, but live the overall effect was too demanding. A hard, draining slog to discover the qualities lurking beneath the jangly exterior and little indication that the rewards would be worth the toil.

At this Lyceum bash (just a few hours before April Fool's Day – there's a strange justice there somewhere) the group began from a position of dominance. A 'victory' was assured, thanks to the massed legions of toe-tapping juveniles eager to find enjoyment and providing a 'proper' pop audience for the group to play with (rather than patronise).

Thanks to the removal of the strangling necessity to win over the uncommitted elements, the band enter and display a brazen confidence. A seemingly effortless grandeur which allows an untroubled, unhurried unfolding of the slightly perverted pop logic that can compose such a scathing, accurate dollop of pop sarcasm as ‘I Just Can't Help Myself’ and can give Edwyn the scope to announce: “We’re not going to play the songs you're familiar with”, after opening the set with a handful of familiar songs, “but we like it so there" as a prelude to a song from the forthcoming third LP.

One feels Orange Juice are weighing up their situation and becoming purposefully manipulative. Their sound ID is smooth and colourful and it can incorporate exciting, rough extremes.

One highlight is towards the end with the arrival of a guest sax player – namely Frank Want aka Foetus, direct from San Francisco, via Melbourne, to cast a grand array of squawks and squeaks all over the chart smashing 'Rip It Up’.

A boot up the rear of pop music's malaise. Surprisingly (and bluntly), Orange Juice kicked ass.