Hot Chip

When does a band say enough is enough? How many flaming hoops will they jump through before the burns get too painful? Both of tonight's bands have languished in obscurity for three years or more, buoyed by the occasional opened door or salutary review, gambling their time and money for the elusive jackpot of international fame. Or, if not international fame, then at least enough winnings to carry on playing. With the imminent release of their first 'proper' singles (legitimised by their media coverage), Riviera F and Hot Chip are going all-in on the poker table of pop.

Like the Spice Girls, the five members of Hot Chip have five different looks. There's Nerdy Chip, Ginger Chip, Numan Chip, Overweight Chip and Speccy Chip. But you may as well call them all Posh Chip. Tonight I asked the question: what difference does it make to a band if they come from a privileged, public-schooled background?. Of course, it should make none, but I couldn't help feeling that their music could never come from anywhere but a life without want. On Sexual Chocolate ("a song for Eddie Murphy") they play self-indulgent music of startling shallowness. There is no edge, no desire, just good time party music.

"When you gotta go you gotta go" they sing on one song, sounding like a poppier Beta Band, with a similar stoner funkiness. And don't get me wrong, it is good: for the first half of their set their toe-tapping pop is as cool as Shoreditch twats in the audience. But slowly and inexorably they turn into Gomez, the effect of which is akin to finding out that the lucky man's sleeves are stuffed with aces. One couldn't help but feel cheated.

Tonight's venue was Shoreditch's equivalent of the Queen Vic, with the crescent of the bar taking centre stage, the bands suffering relegation to one end of the room. For a band who play as quietly as Riviera F this meant blending into the background, the chatter striking up - and directly in front of the band as well - without giving them a chance. It is a shame that Riviera F seek the approval of the in-crowd because as my occasional parodist, Mr Manners, says "the problem with the in-crowd is that they don't go to listen to the music, they just go there to be seen."

Like their electronic antecedent, Kraftwerk, Riviera F are primarily a studio band. On record, particularly within the context of their electronic peers (on Kashpoint radio this Wednesday they sounded glorious), their metallic sheen reflects a world of data streams and inhuman dreams. Live, particularly in the Queen Vic, this sheen is cloudy and dull. To wring the last drops of blood out of the gambling analogy: on the poker table they lost their nerve, but they could still win on the slot machines. Look out for their single, International Lover, in March.