Mclusky Do Gotham

"We love the people we hate. 'Cos, we hate them."

Cerebral, adorable Cardiff deviants Mclusky are in the Mercury Lounge in Manhattan. They've been on tour for a couple of weeks and it shows. Bassist Jon Chapple is concerned at the presence of "hydrogen cyanide!" in his fags, singer/guitarist Andy Falkous is concerned at the absence of drummer Mat Harding, and both are concerned at the state of everything.

"Last night in Canada," says Chapple, "we played with one band called American Indie Rock and another one called In These American Times. In the preview of the gig it said 'Er... Go Canada!'"

"What next?" Falkous scoffs. "I want a band called Insultingly Derivative Mid-Tempo Rock From Tennessee..."

Mclusky have been going down very well in the US, and back home in Cardiff they're working on their third album, the follow-up to 2002's evilly brilliant 'Mclusky Do Dallas'. Misconceptions follow them around and have accompanied them on this tour. They're contemptuous of their audience almost to the point of actual violence! They're just like the Pixies! They're Welsh! Falkous is from Newcastle, but that didn't foster his inner rage.

"All Newcastle did was compel me to go elsewhere. I miss my friends and football - I don't miss Newcastle Brown Ale. You'd have eight or nine of those and walk home feeling like a crowd of people." He loves Cardiff, though, and doesn't mind that they're tagged as a Welsh band. "That's not a problem for me. There was a guy at the Garage show wrapped in a Welsh flag, going 'I love it when Welsh bands are successful!' I was like, 'I'm not Welsh', and he went 'oh... well, I still like the lyrics'. My girlfriend saw him at the end of the set, leaning against one of the speakers, crying. I don't know if he was overcome, or just a fucking idiot..."

Two nights later they're in Luxx in Brooklyn. The dressing room consists of red leatherette and graffiti. The band are recovering from a head-on collision with an unusual pizza, but Chapple is functioning well enough to speak with soft awe about their good reception.

"I cannot believe the response we've had over here. It's so strange to come so far, to such a massive country, and have a reaction like this. We turn up and other bands say, 'We're really excited to be playing with you. We've heard nothing but you for ages'."

This pizza was sprinkled with something fragrant from the devil's own windowbox. Chapple thought he was gay, then thought he was going to die. Then Falkous spoke a sentence that lasted for 16 minutes. "16 minutes of rubbish. I timed it. I was fucked up, but little Mr Paranoid here was through the roof of all paranoia."

Surely you've got to be a bit genuinely deranged to make decent rock music?

Falkous: "I think you've got to have a side of your personality that's a bit dysfunctional... if you're gonna communicate through shouting obscure statements which may or may not tie into a general threadwork. Heh! I'm not really into literal rock songs."

They hate misinterpretation but accept it as inevitable. They're aghast at some reviews - "It said we 'show contempt for the audience bordering on actual physical violence'. That's got nothing to do with us at all" - and pleased by others. A recent album review in NY's Alternative Press said that if the writer's house was on fire they'd save their cats, and 'Mclusky Do Dallas'. Your album is as important to them as their cats. Wow!

"That's incredible," marvels Falkous. "To be as important as those cats, if they're like my cats back home... it has to be really important. And funny, and affectionate, and it is an affectionate album... It kinda sidles up to you, touches you on the shoulder, dabs your forehead and says... 'It's OK not to be thick!' You went to university, you don't have to sing about these weird bluesy torments you have... it's OK not to be completely thick. Y'know - it's alright!"

Here the serene intellectual discourse is interrupted by Chapple, who's been to investigate the girl-punk support band and now thunders back into the dressing room awash with tour-hormones.

"I just wanted to grab the lead singer's fur in my firm hand..."

All die laughing, except for drummer Harding who perks up, all practical enquiry. "Is she nice?"

"I think," sighs Falkous, "that this conversation needs to take a hue less based on sexual frustration, and more on actual chat, based on words."

Chapple: "My girlfriend is gonna have to be up for the dirt. I've got a lotta dirt, lined up and ready to rock. There's gonna be some rudimentary drowning..."

Falkous protests mildly but there's no stopping the torrent once it's started. Harding has vanished, presumably to sate his curiosity and possibly other things that don't bear thinking about. Do you get groupies?

Chapple (sternly): "I hate groupies. It's so not encouraged. All I think about is my girlfriend. I wanna get home to her, and show her what I'm made of. Which is, a lot."

And with that he splits, leaving a fondly exasperated Falkous. That was quite touching.

"It is, and I know for a fact it's true, but I wish he wouldn't go on about it. Talking about a cyst on his bollocks onstage. We didn't know about it until he told 200 people in San Francisco."

So are you going to be bearing your own innermost on the new album?

"Yeah, it's gonna be a really deep dissection of all we hold dear. A deep, profound, post-millennial..."

Oh stop.

"Heh! It's gonna be the same band but less power-chordy and chaotic. I'm a bit sick of cliched rock music, I want something a bit more abrasive, and a bit more obviously funny without descending into comedy hats."

No dumbing-down.

"It's more of a dumbing-up."

The subsequent gig ends with Chapple putting his head into the bass drum and standing up in it, sending drums and drummer flying as he lumbers around like a very large sentient lollipop. Brooklyn is baffled, but also rather lucky.

Mclusky Do Dallas is out now on Too Pure