So named because it was the only kind of mutt not name-checked on George Clinton’s 'Atomic Dog', Broken Dog skulk onstage and start playing their breathtakingly concise catalogues of betrayal and futility. Just like that, really. No preamble. No hello. No hooray. Martine doesn’t even introduce us to 'Rachael', a voiceless muffled howl from the eye of a distant hurricane that Clive articulates with almost painfully precise patience. What a plangent plucker. Martine just throbs her way through it. She finally opens her mouth for 'I Exited', which her aristocratic Lydia Lunch singing turns into a resonating hollow boast. Gloria Gaynor grins'You seemed to think that without you I’d fall to pieces, that I don’t have a mind' It’s the sound of someone so disgusted to try to be amused, too fed up to be sickened.
Clive is pedalling his guitar into all kinds of brilliant corners, turning the atmosphere from Marianne Faithfull’s 'Broken English' to Magazine’s 'Real Life' with invisible flicks of the finger. 'Where Will You Go When There’s Nowhere Left To Go?' sounds like Nick Drake’s bleakest demos, but Broken Dog will have their day. 'Lullaby' is a goodnight song to a lover with a bellyful of pills. 'Baby I’m Lost Without You' (Broken Dog give songs the best names in the world) comes within a country mile of Moose, but quickly turns to Earth. 'I’m a waste of space' mutters Martine, and Broken Dog limp off.