A weekend enhanced by Marshmallow. (From Warrington Guardian)

A weekend enhanced by Marshmallow.

It wasn't quite what I had expected, to be honest.

A phone call from Manchester's delightfully ... courageously idiosyncratic Storm Music record label - from Conrad, the DJ partner to the ever ebullient Sir Terence Christian on GMR - had indicated that a package would be forthcoming containing a heady cross section of Storm's roster. To be honest, although I have previously admired Storm's perceptive A & R policy, I wasn't overtly thrilled by the prospect of spending the weekend listening to a bundle of artists new to these ears. (I quite fancied a trip to Morecambe. I have no idea why except that, in Morecambe, I once witnessed an early version of Saxon ... in a seaside bar called The Seahorse. At this point the band were called 'Son ov a Bitch' and a Hell's Angel ... well actually a local 'greaser', and a particularly unpleasant one at that, placed his arm around my neck, in the 'Gents' and spoke to me from a distance of one inch. Through a tsunami of spittle I discovered he had an accent that can only be described as Scottish, that he was a greaser of the inebriated variety and that his sexual preferences were, to say the least, suspect. Although I enjoyed the company of Scottish folk, I found the other facets of his personality rather less endearing. I was only 16 and spent the remainder of the gig hiding behind the band's base speaker. I never really forgave Saxon for that. As for Morecambe ... I never returned ... I am sorry, I digress.

The package duly arrived on Saturday morning and, half-heartedly slapping one of my newly acquired CD's in the car hi-fi, I did, indeed, drive to Morecambe. By the time I had reached the seafront, I was deep into my third play through of the album, which happened to be by the band, Marshmallow, a London based melodic rock band formed around the astonishing songwriting talents of New Zealander Alan Gregg.

The Marshmallow album is the culmination of two years prolific song writing, mainly recorded in a Stoke Newington attic.

So there it was. Song after song after song after song. Each one sinking deep into my subconscious and often floating into thought at any given moment. With disarmingly simplistic lyrics that sit on the very edge of irony - "Scooter girl, scooter girl, have you ever seen a cuter girl..." - is probably the most extreme example. Not a word is wasted as Greg pulls the listener through a series of semi-comic scenarios, including a marvellous song, Open Mic Night, which follows the nervy fortunes of a first time female singer songwriter of the Joni Mitchell mould. The lyric evokes a seedy London venue and battles, with the girl, until she wins over the initially disinterested audience. Such vignettes scatter through an album rich with wit, imagery and endless cute melodies. I just couldn't stop playing it and, five days later, still can't.

It's good to see a Manchester based label that isn't prepared to sit within the prevailing trends. To illustrate the disparate nature of their acts, their current roster also includes David Wrench a tall electronic Albino ... he's not personally electronic, it's just his music, which thumps along to an infectious sexual groove. (I was pleased to discover this as it made a pleasant alternative to the other non-Storm electronica album I chanced upon, last week, which came wrapped in critical plaudits and sounded like two fridges in the night ... actually, not as melodic - or indeed as loud - as my fridge which is trying to get a record contract at this very moment).

Back to Morecambe, if we must ... I am pleased to report that no leery greasers littered the seafront. If Morecambe was a rock album, it would be something by The Incredible String Band, I would suggest. It is significantly more pleasant than Blackpool but, then again, so is Gdansk. I mention Blackpool because I have to go their, on December 15 to catch Pete Doherty's band, Babyshambes at The Empress Ballroom. Something tells me that it will be the stuff of legend and will one day resurface on a shaky DVD. Occasionally a gig is thrown up that just seems too intriguing to miss. Unlike Morecambe.