We’re living in the age of the Global Village, instant worldwide communication, blah, blah, blah. Maybe, but when it comes to music, sometimes the speed is more like that of a compo’d worker. Ratcat’s arrival met with typical London who-the-f*ck-are-you?. London’s Camden; a “best of” mix of Darlo dregs, Paddo trendoids and Glebian bohemes breathing down each others throats. The Camden Underworld meanders below the streets like the lost souls staggering above it. In a piece of architectural brilliance, possibly on a par with the Cahill Expressway, a support column neatly penetrates the middle of the Underworld’s stage.

In a UK water testing exercise, Ratcat supported rising indie guitar/funk schizophrenics, Eat. After a 9 month get-our-heads-together sabbatical, Eat’s imminent return was met with a house full of salivating/lubricating beat eaters. No easy task rearranging 500 thought patterns to the belief that a fuzz pop three piece from OZ are worth listening to - let alone applauding.

Support bands can’ void playing to somewhat detached ears. In a short but sweet set, Ratcat delivered to a crowd with a cyclic attention span. The intro to Baby Baby permitted the flock to continue their unfinished discussions; eyes and ears automatically drawn back to the stage as soon as musical flesh reappeared in the song, Skin, at No 3 in the set, marked a change in crowd feeling; indifference became interest.

Watching from the sidelines gave a looking glass image of crowd response. Ratcat’s style didn’t floor ‘em, it engaged ‘em. Let’s face it, 80% of the crowd probably had never heard of the band before they stepped on stage. Throughout, a small collection of antipodean groupoids stood out like canine scrotal sacs - bouncing to any utterance leaving Simon’s lips.

In a country where new acts proliferate like corruption charges do in Oz, the band has a long haul before it can rest easy. If they wanna make it here, they’ve gotta latch onto its throat like a pit bull terrier - Ratcat - here’s the opportunity, you can do it if you don’t pussyfoot around.