ROCK journalists pride themselves on being able to approach any given story from the lamest possible angle, and I would be laughed out of the Rock Journalist Working Men's Club (like a regular Working Men's Club, only with guys arguing over which Fall album to put on the jukebox) if I didn't hang the following review around the entirely arbitrary fact that both bands have 'black' in their name. Let The Battle Of Blackness commence.

Local heroes Black Night Crash have the potential to be something really special.

They've got that chugga-chugga Led Zep Kashmir groove down to a fine art, and the fug of wailing white noise which envelops their heaviest moments recalls the dark jam-band psychedelia of Leave Them All Behind era Ride.

Plus, they've got a helluva singer. Their riffs are better than their songs, but that ain't no bad thing when they're riffs John Squire would sell his Jackson Pollocks for.

If The Black Velvets had arrived two years ago, they would have been huge.

But times and NME editorial policies change, and with Franz-esque punk-funk the current indie de-jour, sounding a bit like Jet just won't cut it.

The relentless AC/DC bluster begins to grate after ten minutes, and while they don't really do anything wrong, they don't do anything remotely special either. I'm as big a sucker for good ol' rock and roll as anybody, but this felt tired.

The Spinal Tap award for being 'none more black' goes to Black Night Crash.

Updated: 10:45 Tuesday, February 15, 2005