The Postmarks
Shepherd’s Bush Empire, London
19/11/2009

As London debuts go, few bands would baulk at the chance to play a sold-out show at a 2,000-capacity venue – even if the people who bought the tickets actually paid to see someone else (in this case, Bell X1, “the Irish Talking Heads” if we’re feeling charitable). The trouble with support slots like this is that, as Floridians The Postmarks find tonight, most people tend not to show up till a pint (yes, it’s a unit of time) before the headliners come on.

As such, it’s a barely quarter-full room that greets the five-piece as they half-apologetically drift onstage, but it doesn’t take long for those present to realise there’s something attention-worthy going on here. Fronted, visually at least, by a guitarist called Chris, a keyboard-wrangler called Jon and a stripy-dressed female singer called, by all accounts, Tim, The Postmarks fashion a locked-groove, bittersweet flavour of guitar pop that’s as hard to resist as it is to classify.

The first surprise comes early, as a naggingly familiar chord progression sends us scrabbling through the recesses of our memory banks. It turns out to be a short-and-sweet version of mercurial 90s shoegazers Ride’s wonderful ‘OX4’, the original’s glistening shards of feedback replaced with an intellipop sheen – reminiscent of nobody so much as Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s old band theaudience. But playing a cover so early is no sign of weakness here: The Postmarks first hit the blogosphere last year with a number-themed album of re-workings, and sure enough a Camera Obscura-esque girl-group take on The Ramones’ ‘7-11’ shows up soon after.

Their own ‘Don’t Know Till You Try’ further betrays The Postmarks’ ill-hidden Euromania, expertly blending the Franco-German electro-chanson of Stereo Total with Kenickie’s more soulful moments and an obligatory dash of Stereolab drone. Tonight’s unpretentious, innocent and disconcertingly English set is underpinned by a voguish 80s new wave feel and given pleasing coherence by Tim’s Astrud Gilberto purr.

And what eyes are trained on stage at all are pointing in Tim’s direction, that’s for sure. Even when Chris asks everyone to smile as he photographs the (now appreciably weightier) crowd, the singer’s posing decorously centre stage with her toy megaphone. This could all have been unendurably twee, but there’s something ballsy, charming and very grown-up about The Postmarks’ post-pop.

Charlie Ivens