It's a chrysalis to butterfly moment for the Kaiser Chiefs. "This is probably the last time we'll play here," announces singer Ricky Wilson, without a hint of regret at leaving the emergent-band scene behind. But his supreme confidence comes with an unsurprising disbelief. With just two singles under their skinny belts and a debut album, Employment, still to come, the Leeds band's ascendence from scrabbling wannabes to poised leaders of the indie scene has been dazzling.
But if the speed is a surprise, their success isn't. Making arch, whimsical celebrations of the ordinary, the Kaiser Chiefs follow a clearly defined path through three generations of Britpop. Kinks, Jam and Blur are blended with the jagged newness of the Killers. Pasting awkward keyboards, desperate harmonies, catchy choruses and demented shrieking onto an agenda of in-spite-of-it-all fun, their sound is a commercial one size fits all.
There's obsessively studied showbiz too, Wilson's every move seemingly based on Damon Albarn's messianic stage persona. Dressed in a white, short-sleeved shirt and black tie, arms open wide, Wilson looks like a Young Conservative making a speech at the party conference. But he's a star. Whether coyly putting his little finger to his lips or jabbing his hand towards the crowd, his charisma brings the almost vengeful euphoria of the band's music to boiling point. The kicking and screaming I Predict a Riot almost does just that, bass player Simon Rix spinning like a top. After vaulting into a twisted jump, Wilson jolts to the kickaround rhythm of Na Na Na Na Naa, hamming up his brooding stare beneath his sodden fringe. Oh My God is a punchy celebration of how the Kaiser Chiefs have come and where they're heading.
Wilson might be ready to join the big boys, but he'll miss squashing the flesh of fans, judging by how often he flings himself off stage, suspended on grabbing hands. And they'll miss him.
· At Oxford St HMV, London, on March 7, and Virgin Megastore, Leeds, on March 8.
