The Mojave Collective

Some people suggest that a nice portion of Thai-Red Curry, two glasses of house red and a pint of Guinness would ensure that listening to the music of Les Misérables, Daniel Bedingfield, or even Pink, would become an engaging, enjoyable experience.

Others would dispute this as an impossible notion.

However, would the fact that I had eaten and drunk such fodder ensure that The Mojave Collective would tonight become world beaters? To anybody who has never been to Telfords Warehouse in Chester, you are missing a treat. Set next to a canal and built on three levels, the place boasts a restaurant (floor 3), a good selection of beers (floor 2) and a compact live music room (yep, you've guessed it, floor 1).

Tonight it's free admittance before 9 o'clock (£4 after) and the place is pretty full. This venue provides comfy seats; a football machine and a good range of records and the band is due to be on stage at around 10.30pm. To be honest, as the Mojave (said Moharvee) arrive there wasn't a massive surge from the bar area to listen. This I feel was a great shame because the five piece country-punk band offered a blast of bongos, drums (with Stetson and shades) a bassist and guitars. They also gave a dollop of check shirts and Red Indian imagery. The band informs us on their web site that they hail from the Deep South (of Liverpool) and boast that they are aware of the difference between irony and ironing. With a clutch of their songs from their CD 'Rust and Dust' they provide nice punchy pop songs with a touch of country vibe. This had a feel of The Coral with a dabble of the corral.

Hailed as 'crap' (Woman's Own), 'indifferent' (Gramophone) and 'pretty damn good actually' (NME) the group of people I was with also provided a diversity of views. However with tracks like 'Blame it on Lorraine' the jambalaya of guitars gradually got the crowd going. Widespread dancing erupts. This unfortunately was mainly delivered by three stocky men in suits, pint glasses in hand. But, fair do's, these fellas manipulate their girth with hip swivelling and vertebrae crunching magnificence. Never has such a keen show of bravado been witnessed since an MP claimed money to have his moat cleaned.

The band themselves also appeared to be getting in the vibe, with the percussionist peeling off his shirt before flicking sweat from his grizzly beard. The group of girls I was with also rearranged their facial hair as the music flew from one song to another. (But alas, no lasso action was to be seen). In the middle of room a George Clooney lookalike attempted to clap in time with the music. A lady mimicked pregnancy by sticking a helium balloon up her dress as a lady with a wonky leg attempted to support her friend (who had drunk her lack of height in Southern Comfort). In truth, most of the crowd looked as though they had something to do with 'rehab'.

I do feel that in a festival setting, and with plenty of sunshine, this band would go down a storm. Tonight, it was more of a lovely little squall, but I really enjoyed them. They played a nice batch of their own songs with a couple of covers as they invited people to doh-si-doh their partners. At 11.30pm the last song was played before the Mojave returned to their Merseyside reservation with no encore forthcoming.

It was then time for the square blokes in suits to return to the dance floor. Luckily the squeal from their arthritic hips was masked by a good blend of music being played by the resident DJ at Telfords. This allowed people to wiggle their tomahawks and strut their stuff. George Clooney and his tribe did just that.

FUTURE GIGS

sorry, we currently have no gigs listed for this act.