Painting the town red with The Others - Abbey Road crossing/Koko @ Camden Palace, 22 September 2004

It's a chilly Wednesday evening in West London. At 6 o' clock, to the bemusement of the well-heeled locals, the forecourt in front of St John's Wood tube station swarms with dishevelled teenagers in a uniform of grubby Converse, black tights, short denim skirts and skinny, badge-adorned blazers. At 7pm, they're still there, standing around at their designated rendezvous point, clutching cans of Fosters (supplied, it seems, by the band) and waiting for London's increasingly notorious fourpiece The Others to turn up and lead them in the direction of some noise. By 8pm, they're crowdsurfing across Abbey Road.

As they pogo around the drumkit that sits squarely in the middle of the famed Abbey Road zebra crossing, a line of cars either side of them honk angry horns, while people on passing buses stare at the chaos. Baseball-capped kids perch on the walls of the street, sniggering derisively at the scene before them, and incensed old ladies of the upper class rage at the bouncing teenage crowd in the road and screech at their drivers to "run them all over!!!"

Gleefully aware of the chaos his band has caused, singer Dom Masters points his megaphone at the windows of the vast houses that line the street, drawling, "this is for all the poor, and not you rich kids!". Cameras flash from every quarter, capturing the melêe, and their Robert Smith-haired guitarist wanders in and out of the road aimlessly, plucking out stinging, fuzzy little riffs, as a dutiful helper follows him around with a baby-sized amp, oblivious to the police cars that approach them. By 8.30pm it's all over, unimpressed coppers [who've clearly seen it all before] dispersing the fizzing throng, and all that's left of the evening's chaos are the words scrawled across the Abbey Road street sign. Publicity stunt it may be, but it's a hell of a way to entertain a crowd.

Four hours later, we're at the newly launched Koko NME night in the dazzling but ever useless Camden Palace, and it's another story altogether. This time the guitars are actually audible, spewing out a liquid electrical current that jolts their fans into activity. Yet it's lifeless in comparison. The kids are, as ever, onstage by the end of the set, and as at Abbey Road, Masters ends the set sailing high above his fans, held aloft by their hands, but now it feels little more than routine.

The Others have more than enough spark and charisma to justify the hype they've generated so far in the music press and broadsheets, not to mention the legion of fans, militantly loyal, that follow and join them in their exploits around London. Their problem - and it'll more than likely crash down on them in the not-so-distant future - is a distinct lack of musical identity. Much like the Sex Pistols, who they've been frequently compared to, they thrive on controversy and publicity. Unlike the Pistols, save for rare and wonderful moments, they're painfully short on memorable, catchy songs.

In the street, playing unauthorised and impromptu gigs and feeding their teen disciples rock 'n' roll, beer and alleged other substances, who else could it be but The Others? In this enormous room, however, unless you're squashed down the front clutching at the legs of your self-appointed rock and roll messiah, this band could be anyone. Their songs are basically London vocal grit - much of it staged - laid down over Strokes and Stooges riffs. It's engaging for the first five minutes, but after two songs we get the point, and by the eighth song, anyone with less than saintlike patience is at the bar, downing their third drink.

The Others specialise in ragged publicity stunts; they can get a crowd - their own crowd, at least - thrashing around anywhere, be it a North London fleapit venue or a tube train. Invariably it's likeable, snotty and funny. It's becoming increasingly clear, though, that they lack the dimensions of a real, competitive band. Beneath the grubby charm and sloganeering lies little else, and their self-styled guerilla persona is starting to look all too worn.