I love working where I work. Actually, I’m talking more geographically than anything. Came out of work on Monday night and on my way to the pub, stopped by at HMV Oxford Street, where The Mystery Jets were playing a five-song set. "It's a bit weird playing a gig in a record shop," said the lead singer. It certainly is: they looked strange twisting around beneath the static indoor lights; we felt strange standing in the aisles, CD racks on each side. I was in the rock and pop aisle, next to the Cs, The Cribs and Culture Club.
I wasn’t very impressed with the Jets; they seem like a poor man’s Futureheads to me. What I was impressed by was the number of screaming teenage girls, well, screaming. You expect that at a Westlife gig, but not for four scruffy and odd-looking indie-types playing jittery rhapsodic guitar rock. That they're listening to obscure, trying-to-be-inventive indie that's actually a bit mediocre while they lust after their boy heroes, well, that's surely preferable to the usual saccharine pop balladry that they have to put up with.
Listen to The Mystery Jets here, if you must.