There was this amazingly tense moment last April as air raid sirens reverberated around the Liverpool Carling Academy and blue searchlights swooped through the crowd. The Dead 60s had come home to play a furious 40-minute set in front of friends, family and well wishers. There were no searchlights at the Astoria last night, but as the sirens called out again and their cassette-and-skullbones banner descended across the stage, every underage kid with an ASBO and pocket money were being whipped up to a frenzy before the four lads from Liverpool launched into “Loaded Gun”. The Dead 60s have arrived in a tower block shaped time machine of scary funfair synths and twisty bass.

All the singles got an airing, with the kids going fucking mental for “You’re not the Law” and “Riot Radio”, similarly with “Last Resort” and “Ghostfaced Killer” (sadly nothing to do with the rapper) during the encore. The Dead 60s sound and stage show had matured beyond belief in a year. With no breaks between songs, drummer Bryan Johnson admirably kept up an urgent pace for a set that was just shy of an hour. Singer Matt McManamon playing the obnoxious frontman, all muscle and Joe Strummer yelps, Ben Gordon switching from guitar to keys via an inspired tabla moment during one of many dub segues and bassist Charlie Turner sounding less girly than ever before on backing vocals. The set was heavily dub, with less poppy moments than on their eponymous debut album and this is precisely why you should give the Dead 60s another chance.

It’s too easy to write this band off as shit. Four good looking lads (but they’re ugly- R.L) from Liverpool, kitted out in jeans and Fred Perrys with a highly polished and arguably, over-produced, studio album on Deltasonic to boot. For some, the Dead 60s scream “Boy Band! Boy Band!” But this aint the case, as we witnessed last night. The most telling moments were found in the interim jams between songs, with Matt and Ben playing with the more clement aspects of experimental sound and Charlie’s basslines sleazing all over your face. It’s a shame the Matt’s accent was largely lost on the London crowd- for every simple-minded lyric he yelps out, there’s some really beautiful ones, particularly on “Train to Nowhere”.

The Dead 60s are magnificent live. There’s this combination of the anthemic, fast-paced tunes and the eerie, swirling keyboards all mixed with contemplative smoking-room dub that is not only instantly listenable, but also interesting. Again, with the average age of the crowd being 15, there was many a confused look when they realised they couldn’t mosh to the laid-back “Too Much TV”. In fact, last night was only marred by the fact that God told a couple of hundred underage paraplegics that they could dance like twats for one night only, then promptly issued them with Dead 60s tickets. Insufferable mauve bastard, René Lavanchy, proved himself to be quite a gentleman, assuming the role of human shield to protect me from all the children insisting on elbowing me in the back and throwing beer cans at my head. Skills.

The verdict? Go see the Dead 60s, they might just surprise you (I don’t think I’ll see the Dead 60s again anytime soon- R.L.). Yes, you can hear The Specials in there, ditto the Clash, but for a generation that grew up without ska, you could do a lot worse than cutting your teeth on the Dead 60s. Last night, we heard the sirens calling. And it was exciting. In fact, it was so exciting, René punched me in the face. I’m off to buy a Fred Perry, see you all later.