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Levy
Water Rats, London, Jan 23

"This song is called On The Dance Floor. Not to be confused with Confessions On A Dance Floor or - what's that other one? I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor, that's it."

In this week of Arctic Monkeys mania, it's a fair bet that anyone without every last man jack of their song titles hard-wired into their brain is from out of town. And so it proves with Levy, who wear their stripey tops, just-so stubble and tight leather bomber jackets with the swagger and style that seems to be compulsory within the Big Apple's five boroughs.

There was a time, of course - back when New York rather than New Yorkshire was the epicentre of the (ahem) new rock revolution - that just hailing from NYC and looking vaguely sharp would have been enough to ensure Levy were met at Heathrow by slavering packs of music journalists.

As things stand they make their UK debut in front of a handful of curious fans, many of whom have just enjoyed the spectacle of support band Emit, whose singer's attempts to cast himself as a Muse/Placebo-style tortured poet are constantly undermined by his portly bassist's gurning and hip-swivelling behind him. Honestly, it's like an indie rock version of the bit at the end of The Little And Large Show when Supersonic Syd's attempts to sing a song were always scuppered by Eddie's "hilarious" antics.

Not such problems for Levy, whose single mindset means they all look like they shop at the same thrift shop and finish each other's sentences. But while they really are from New York City , something deep within them clearly longs to come from Rotherham .

Or, more accurately, East Kilbride. There's a deep Scottish influence at work here, curiously, from Jesus And Mary Chain-style fuzzy strumming to Belle & Sebastian pop jauntiness via the distinctly Edwyn Collins-esque way that singer James holds his guitar. Add in a presumably genetic sonic resemblance to The Strokes and you have a band who write great songs with even greater lyrics, who look cool, but somehow manage to be incredibly under-stated as well. 

Hence the lack of hype, presumably, but you suspect Levy will prove to be a band to treasure nonetheless.

Elsewhere, it's been a curious couple of weeks. The Carling New Kings gig at Islington Academy looked brilliant on paper, but was slightly spoiled by the long delays that accompany anything being filmed for TV. Still, Kano was a revelation - a grime artist who can spit it with the best of them, but whose softer side suggests he could be the genre's first real crossover. At least so long as his prophetic lyrics on Typical Me about the Brits (for which he's just won a debut nomination) don't come true.

On the same night, we also get to see the cheeriest band in pop (The Magic Numbers, who now only have to strum a guitar chord to put everyone in a good mood) and the grumpiest man in rock (Graham Coxon, who hurtles through a set at 1000mph, muttering furiously, playing an unannounced cover of The Jam's All Mod Cons and showcasing some new material that sounds like The Lurkers, The Ruts and Sham 69 all playing at once). I liked it, the kids just looked scared. Go figure.

Gig of the year so far came from an unlikely source, however. OK Go have been long forgotten since stutter-pop classic Get Over It won them the title of The Argos Weezer back in 2003, but their gig at the Brixton Windmill was the most fun you can have on a freezing cold January night unless you're going out with Cheryl Tweedy.

It helps that the atmosphere in The Windmill means it's like attending a show at The O.C 's legendary Bait Shop - groups of indie girls in stripy tops do the My Sharona dance from Reality Bites, people jump up on tables and the band even get the crowd to help pick the setlist.

They do a fine job too, plumping for plenty of glam rock power pop from the first record (highlight: You're So Damn Hot, which Paris Hilton really should be covering for her forthcoming debut album), an ace cover of ELO's Don't Bring Me Down ("What are people from Birmingham called?" ponders Damian. "Brummies? You guys have totally f***ed up the letters there!") and, to end, a synchronised dance routine to new single A Million Ways that somehow manages to be both completely hilarious and utterly brilliant all at the same time. The Bait Shop may have seen it all before, but The Windmill rocks like never before.

2006: it's a goer. Official.