I’d never heard of the Priscillas before tonight (and it’s hard for me to admit that about a band) and, to be honest, I doubt I’ll hear much about them again, which is actually kind of a pity. They’re not an instantly loveable band, even to someone who has an avowed and, sometimes irrational, preference for female musicians, but don’t worry, they do grow on you. At first you suspect they are going to be a little disappointing – I don’t know why, just a suspicion which the lead singer’s Ann Summer’s costume and out-of-time dancing does little to allay – but by the end of the set, you bewilderingly discover that you have been pleasantly surprised in the manner of a Victorian gentleman who returns home to discover he is accompanied by a prostitute he was too polite to refuse.

Although the Priscillas are a distinct band in their own right, the musical reference points are strong and many – Siouxsie, Blondie (especially Debbie Harry’s spoken word bits) and Louise Post (Veruca Salt) all come up in the vocals (and not because I’m trying to pigeonhole them as a ‘girl band’ – just because they know their records), the vocal variety enhanced by the contributions of the whole band (don’t you think that can just MAKE a live band if it’s done right?). Bands with one guitarist sometimes suffer from a big gap in the sound live. Also female guitarists are sometimes not taken seriously. The Priscillas’ guitarist in no way lets either side down tonight (just as well since we all know who’s coming next - and she doesn’t strike me as the sort of girl to piss off), showing herself to be versatile and somewhat unique on the six-stringed instrument common to most ensembles playing that racket you kids have listened to nowadays (since the 1950s). Speaking of which, there’s a hint of that 1950’s sense of youthful fun at dressing up and singing into a hairbrush in front of a mirror about the Priscillas, without them quite descending into kitsch (which is good – ‘cos I’m bored of that). Finally, it is worthy of mention that the drummer managed to play properly in heels. Oh, and kudos for working on your own merch stand and having a few drinks with the punters.

A Cramps audience is a curious hybrid of young and old, goth poseurs (who you suspect don't quite get it but didn't want to miss a chance to dress up), genuinely gothic individuals (in the actually scary sense), be-quiffed rockabilly types and a few frightingly normal-looking people (who I suspect get it, or just wondered in off the street out of curiousity, what do I know?). The last time I saw the Cramps was in the same venue just a few years before...after a few songs the set blended into one glorious swathe of bass and feedback, culminating in Lux staking his claim to the finest version of the Trashmen's garage standard 'Surfin' Bird'...attop the Stacks...tugging himself off. Those who weren't there that night, had obviously heard of it and anticipation was more palpable than it had any right to be for a band celebrating its thirtieth anniversary.

The Cramps may be old but Lux Interior is still 'The Mad Daddy' (opening number/statement of intent) and anyone who dares challenge him for the title is a fool and had better not come crying to me. There is, however, reason in his madness (though he would rush to denounce such a notion) his is an object lesson in studied insane/fucked-up/animal lust cool. He struts on stage, removing the cork from his wine bottle with his teeth and spiting it at the audience and proceeds to mock-drunk stagger around the stage, constantly almost dropping the mike stand only for it to miraculously appear in his hand just when he needs it or writhing on the floor trying to see up guitarist Poison Ivy's skirt (this is no great feat, though, as the skirt is tiny and she, his wife). In short, Lux has been doing this a long time but his time has not been wasted - he knows how to look insane, drunk, consumed by lust and how to make it look cool. Basically, he walks the walk in a way Elvis would have given his right hip for. But can he talk the talk?

Of course he can. The Lux vocal formula is simple: keep your voice deep and cool and put your mic through a truckload of delay. And then there are the animal noises. The Cramps are a primal force and Lux's array of groans, grunts and howls serve as a constant reminder of just how little separates them from the animals. However, the main thing you notice is that Lux's microphone technique resembles nothing so closely as someone (and there's no polite way of saying this) sucking a big cock with great relish. Sound cheesy? Not quite. You see, the Cramps have a sense of humour. But they're not a joke. Somehow, when Lux intones "I'm primitive...that's how I live", you believe him.

This is, I suspect because of Ivy. For my money, Poison Ivy is one of the Great Unsung Guitar Heroines, both holding the Cramps together with her no-nonsense, let-no-chord-be-wasted, jerky rhythm playing and tearing them apart with the insanity of her overdrive-baked breakdowns. This woman can do more with a two-note solo than Joe Satriani can do with an entire fretboard. Guitarists such as he and Vai should have their fingers broken for even trying to compete with her. Onstage, Ivy is also the perfect foil to Lux and his antics. As the personification of icy cool, she regards all that befalls impassively, strumming with a surprising delicacy and never responding to even the most ludicrous eventuallity with anything more than a raised eyebrow. Don't let that fool you though, this is the Cramps and they play from the crotch, regardless of their individual gender or outward appearance. Most rock bands trying to inject sex into their music sound like an adolescent boy having a wank in his bedroom. The Cramps sound like the most exotic couple you ever saw having a dirty shag in the jungle and occasionally casting a knowing glance at the camera.

The rest of the band have my sympathy...is it worse watching your parents simulate musical sex with each other every night or knowing that they're cooler than you? In fairness, the bass-player is something of a star in his own right...it's just that the Cramps already have two frontpersons...who, in fairness, give the tall, dark, insistent man on four-string his due whenever he does something especially cool during the set. The drummer plays fine but sticks out like a sore thumb and is probably best tucked away at the back of the Addam's family photo (boy, Gomez and Morticia are ashamed of him...).

The best thing I can say about this gig is that it was worth all the expense, time and energy which it required and which I didn't really have. Thank-you to Lucy and Donald for their hospitality (long live the Geek Palace!) and bacon sandwiches but not to National Express because their seats are so small I couldn't sleep in them even though I had just finished a ten hour night shift...and I've slept through a hurricane and a bomb.

Do you have a band, gig, or album you'd like Punk John to review? An idea for a themed playlist? Tell him about it! E-mail punkjohn@antagonistinternational.com!