“Jasmain broke my guitar, Jasmain separated stars in the sky.” So sings one David Henderson from the stage of the Picture House on Lothian Road, he drops to his knees and releases a squall of erratic electricity from that guitar, suggesting he’s lying about Jasmain on two counts, for the magnificent noise shuddering from the stage is the one that would separate stars in the sky. A four-pronged guitar attack stands flush to the front edge of the stage and suddenly surreally, wonderfully, they burst into four part doo-wop harmonies, “Got myself a situation at the Young Man’s Christian Association.” (Henderson’s lyrics seem to demand that American Typewriter font).

Welcome to the fractured, angular – in the sense of an angle that is so acute it doesn’t even exist – world of The Sexual Objects. Here, tonight, playing support to the bloated, self important, corpse of the Gang of… Wait, they’re off again, ‘Here Come the Rubber Cops’ comes careening out of the speakers – The Only Ones battered into submission by Prince at his very finest. “Just wanna spread my wings and make a mess of things.” And we know that this too is perfectly possible which is where the beauty lies, in the unpredictable. But not tonight, no not tonight, this just gets better. The scuzz guitar of ‘Merrie England’ shreds the room like an aural kaleidoscope before blurring into gorgeous harmony vocals, which repetitiously reveal themselves as… “Leave ‘em on the street to die.”

Billy is the author of 67 articles including 'Notes from The Editor – Issue 57' from October's Leither

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People talk, ride out the drugs, talk some more. Me, I’m riveted to this spot, with a few variations. The staging is rudimentary, the lighting primary, people come and go – usually asking me if I know the band’s name, are they on Myspace? Like I would know. But I do know this, later, when I get home, I will do some searching and end up finding four singles – released seemingly in a matter of months – of unparalleled excellence, filled with a fizzing pop sensibility which you somehow feel is hard won. But that was then, or will be then, this is very much now. The Objects are busy carving the atmosphere in this venerable old hall into a shape that is entirely their own. “This is called Full Penetration,” they announce to me, well us, before rattling into a song that sounds like Marc Bolan, if his car had crashed into a cement mixer instead of a tree, oh, and he’d survived. “I gotta get a trace on you.” Again with the apparently simple refrain that echoes in your brain pan for days afterwards.

But by then The Sexual Objects are gone, and you will not be far behind them, like all the best gigs its length can be calendared in minutes. You and I are left with the task of tracking down those four remarkable singles. I wasn’t going to be helpful here, obstructive even, but no, let’s do it – Merrie England, Full Penetration, Here Come the Rubber Cops, Queen City of the Fourth Dimension – let’s fall in love.