Dengue Fever are the kind of band about which (one can imagine) Quentin Tarantino dreams wetly. And by that I mean that they effortlessly exude the slick late-night slow-burn cool upon which he’s built a career in fetishising.

Or did so tonight at least, the LA-based six-piece hitting the ground at a gallop and maintaining the pace for a very solid set.

The steamy beats succeeded in jolting the London crowd out of its usual head-bobbing torpor, inducing some of the late-30s-still-in-with-the-hip-crowd types to break into the ungainly arhythmic spasms that pass for dancing among them. The band certainly appreciated the effects elicited by their Californian psychedelia/60s Cambodian pop blend, singer Chhom Nimol contrasting a winning politeness with a searingly punchy pair of lungs.

It was hard not to be surprised that the hulking figure of Senon Williams didn’t take her out with the neck of his bass, such was the level of rambunctious enjoyment among the lads behind her.

Perhaps the only problem this evening was that once the initial impact of the band’s exoticism faded, one was left with the unshakeable suspicion that the only thing preventing Dengue Fever from degenerating into gimmickry – ‘we’re a rock band, but our vocalist sings in Khmer!’ - is the obvious enthusiasm with which they approach their music. Whether they can maintain it is an entirely different question.

Oliver Downes