Johnny Boy - London UK

Dance, you fuckers, dance.

We don't deserve them. Johnny Boy should be plastered on billboards across the land; precocious sixteen-year-olds should be listening to them whist scribbling fanzines in a haze of glitter, mascara and self-belief, and the final installment of "Top of The Pops" at the end of this month should finish with a defiant performance of "You Are The Generation That Bought More Shoes And You Get What You Deserve" as the lights go out in Television Centre. Instead, as "15 Minutes" blasts Motown-tinged Pop into the 21st century, The Luminaire is surrounded with indifference, the front row static except for a small band of three believers.

"Johnny Boy, what the hell you gonna do / We're your friends! Johnny, what's got into you?"

Is it just London? Is it the country itself? Have we become so mired in apathy that we now look for bands to reflect that back to us instead of making us feel and think about the possibility of something more? Johnny Boy care. Bands can go for a lifetime and not say anything; Lolly's rolled "r" closing the line "I don't wanna buy now and pay in September" in "War On Want" is the most punk thing to happen in music since The Sex Pistols, spitting rage and bile against a whole society with a single consonant. Now, that's class.

And yet. And yet. Davo, wearing a cowboy hat introduces "15 Minutes" with a wry comment: "This next song is from our debut album, out in Japan next week." The greatest British album of the past ten years is only available in Sweden, Japan, and Australia. But if it hurts, it doesn't show. Instead, they perform with an intensity and passion equal only to Dexy's Midnight Runners.

"Sixteen thousand Sony beatboxes all tuned into rock 'n roll."

It's a short set, ten songs in all. It's enough. "Livin' In The City" is Quincy Jones, The Human League, New Order, and Public Enemy rolled into one, "Formaldehyde" is the greatest Manic Street Preachers song that they never wrote, and "All Exits Final" is Grant Morrison's Kill Your Boyfriend translated into song. "Bonnie Parker's 115th Dream" is a revelation; Lolly seemingly merging in and out with the footage of Bonnie and Clyde being projected behind her, not missing a beat even as the song speeds up and up, jumping the rails and into a hail of bullets. Barely half-an-hour has passed. Surely it can't get better than this?

And then.

That sound. That song. Phil Spector's "Be My Baby" taken to 50,000 feet and detonated over London. Stepping through deserted streets cursing the world as the sonic fallout falls all around them, all the while keeping a sliver of hope buried behind their cynicism. The best kind of romance. "You Are The Generation..." is still a marvel two years on, so utterly perfect that you just can't imagine not pledging your heart and soul to the band right there and then.

"And I'm glad you've got a roof, and got a life, and got a lover."

There's always the danger of coming on too strong, of heaping lavish and uncritical praise on a band that you love while the rest of the world feels rather indifferent. But I don't understand. As I come away after talking with somebody whom I've known for eight years yet never met face-to-face before, we're both thinking - why aren't they stars? Why are they only loved by a few MP3 bloggers and refugees from the Music Press In Exile?

They end with a cover of The Ramones' "Sheena Is A Punk Rocker," performed with the same crackling intensity as the rest of their set, smiles flashing from the band as the projection screen flashes up images of their heroes, rebels all the way from Johnny Cash and Dylan to Patti Smith and The Clash, before the crowd filters out of The Luminaire. We step into the night, look around London, scream in frustration, and keep that sliver of hope buried in our hearts, the drumbeat and the fireworks still echoing in our heads.

"And I just can't help believing/Though believing sees me cursed."