After the cringe-worthy antics of support act The Cesarians – think Richard Madeley doing a bad Scott Walker impression – the cool Tarantino-meets-Spaghetti-Western stylings of nine-piece The Bookhouse Boys are most welcome.

The girl-boy vocals of Catherine Turner and Paul Van Oestren occupy the same dark territory as those of Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood, or Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan, but are aided and abetted by El Mariachi brass and twanging fifties guitars. There’s also more than a whiff of Cash and Calexico about these guys, too.

One minute we’re being bombarded by bolshy brass and surf-tastic sounds (‘Dead’), the next we’re being seduced by sultry country noir ballads - ‘Shoot You Down’ is a smouldering slowie that could soundtrack the aftermath of a cowboy gunfight. Sometimes the whole thing threatens to turn into a pantomime – like The Addams Family committing mayhem and murder in a Mexican border town – but then The Bookhouse Boys simply become the Velvet Underground doing Phil Spector (‘Baby I Gotta Go’) and all is forgiven.

The evening ends with galloping drums, deranged, Tequila-soaked chants and plenty of ‘Pulp Fiction’ riffs, by which time I’m thoroughly converted. Heaven knows I’m Misirlou now.