When I approached the Mercury Lounge on a cold and blustery Tuesday night I felt a pang of anxiety as I looked at the first act chalked on the blackboard outside the venue: The Republic of Tigers. I expected to then rendezvous with a shifty, swarthy character and, after handing over a manila envelope, be led – blindfolded – by helicopter, then speedboat, then pack-mule to some remote and heavily guarded jungle outpost…

But stepping into the venue (‘pleasantries’ exchanged with the surly doorwoman) I saw that the Republic of Tigers – who were just firing into their set – were in fact a group of 5 indie kids from Kansas City, Missouri, not a despotic south east Asian military junta.

Republic of Tigers play sharp, well rehearsed and sincere indie pop, but such a description on its own would be a bit too dismissive. They have a good repertoire of songs and styles, from electro-dance numbers to the more ethereal, such as ‘Buildings & Mountains’, an achingly beautiful song. They also handle themselves with immense confidence and composure, suggesting that they’re a band who are by no means averse to playing in front of larger audiences – last year’s 12-week UK tour with Scottish indie stalwarts Travis will attest to this.

Yourself and the Air

The more abstractly monikered Yourself and the Air provide an entirely different proposition. They perhaps don’t have the suave assurance of their predecessors; lead singer Erick Crosby seems awkward and self-conscious between songs and at one point feels obliged to apologise for overdoing the ‘thank yous’ at each interlude, quietly slurring: “fuckingyouguysbunchaprimadonnasanshit …right?” sounding like the bloke from the Usual Suspects. Indeed, Erick.

In song though, Crosby’s voice hits a beautiful note of fragility, pleading to us over his adroit guitar work and James David’s uplifting bass lines. The striking thing about this band is how it seems each man has a turn to flaunt their instrument (oo-er!). This does mean that sometimes the songs can seem disjointed, several songs in one, as Crosby instigates a whiplash inducing time-change, or Jeff Pappendorff spirals off on a tangent on keys. This may not be the easiest music to dance to, but – coupled with the varied instrumentation by the group – it makes for an engrossing listen, something that seems to have been duly noted by the swelling numbers of people now standing on the dance floor. The band are currently independent, but with such an array of sound and ideas, shouldn’t struggle to find a label.

Clem Snide

If there’s one thing tonight’s headliners certainly don’t struggle with it’s commanding attention on stage. You certainly won’t find a more rag-tag bunch than Clem Snide; Singer and band founder Eef Barzelay slopes around the stage with gruff indifference and sings with eyes half closed and top lip curled into a snarl; Brendan Fitzpatrick on bass looks like an urbane Eddie Munster; drummer Ben Martin is, well, a bald man with a big beard and a head band.

The music is also far removed from anything on offer tonight. Their sound is described as “true American deadpan” on their MySpace and it seems a fitting description. Clem Snide are a essentially country band; their songs range from bluesy, drunken lullabies, to more modern stop/start alt rock, to the sleazy bar room funk of song ‘Something Beautiful’, all sang in Barzelay’s inimitable doleful drawl. They’ve got quite a following too – it’s only into the third song of the set that I turn around and realise the venue’s suddenly packed, the crowd hanging on Barzelay’s every word and witty between song patter.

Overall, all one could want of an evening: eclectic musical stylings and excellent banter, all without the prospect of a violent military coup.