Benjamin Wetherill @ The Bowery, 4 Apr

Interestingly, tonight's billed performers are both bands masquerading as solo artists, yet both groups contain their fair share of individual character. Rob St. John's (****) gentle pop fixates on his soft voice, a reserved David Gedge who pulls away from the microphone constantly, afraid of sharing his secrets, as the cosying chorus of Emily Scott and Bart Owl lead him on. Serenely chiming together, the dynamic flux of St. John's tunes becomes decidedly endearing. The (as yet untitled) final track suddenly throws all restraint aside, storming with near outright riffage, the wonderful release of shining pop.

Benjamin Wetherill (***), playing with the Trumpets of Death, steps right out of the ordinary immediately, treading a fine line between madness and marvel. His tremoringly intense persona is drowned beneath drones, scattered rhythms and quite inhumane saxophone playing, and takes persistence to follow. Constantly sinister, the crawling and depraved jazz harmony is worlds away from Rob St. John, who clutches at beauty in a way that Wetherill would find unimaginable. The Bowery is famed more for its chic ambience than live sound, and much is lost in the squall and melee, but despite it all, Wetherill pummels his chromatic freak folk with real meaning, and baffling energy.