Soledad Brothers, 100 Club, London

Playing loud and proud

With a name borrowed from black activists imprisoned in California's Soledad penitentiary, this Detroit (via Toledo) trio are entrenched in the political turmoil of 1960s America. They've adopted the revolutionary Black Panther logo as their own and play raw, rhythm and blues picked straight from the cotton-fields of the south and coloured by Motor City assembly lines. Their current album, Voice Of Treason, is a furious, anarchic beast that struts provocatively and spills political bile. Never mind that the band are all white.

The perception of The Soledad Brothers is of a band that reeks anti-establishment. But this is something that their physical incarnation fails to live up to. Instead of insurgent crusaders decked out in radical symbolism, the Brothers look about as threatening as boy scouts. With his mop of curly hair and podgy cheeks, frontman/guitarist Johnny Walker is a cross between Har Mar Superstar and Frank Zappa, while lanky guitarist/saxophonist, Oliver Henry exudes the same sort of vulnerability as Elliott in ET. But thankfully, their appearance doesn't detract from their incendiary music.

Hailing from the same Detroit garage-blues scene as The White Stripes, the Soledad Brothers' live-wire romps ooze sex like vintage Rolling Stones. Theirs is a taut, sweat-soaked sound, fat with steamrolling riffs and gyrating rhythms. "Teenage Heart Attack" snarls and strides like an amphetamine-stoked "Brown Sugar" and "Lowdown Streamline" surges and heaves with the frantic edge of an impending come-down.

The Brothers perform their sinewy, stalking songs with infectious passion. Walker flings himself to the floor and remains note-perfect even while playing his guitar from behind his head, while both Henry and drummer Ben Swank contort their faces into masks of ecstasy as they wrestle life from their instruments. The only time the band really lose the sold-out crowd is with the heat-heavy slowie "Lorali".

However, undeterred they follow the evening's lowpoint with an almighty string of bloodied tunes direct from the flood plains of the Mississippi delta and instantly snap back ears. The visceral "Cage That Tiger" crackles with coiled tension, while the thundering "The Elucidator" finds Walker preaching furiously like a defiant Gil Scott-Heron over his commanding bass-heavy guitar, Henry's frazzled sax and Swank's imposing time-keeping.

At stage front, the crowds thrash about electrified, but Walker is not satisfied. "We've travelled a long way to rock'n'roll you. I know it's Tuesday, but goddamn," he shouts. What Walker wants is for this historic blues cavern to erupt with dancing bodies fuelled by his band's dense explosive noise. The only thing holding back the nodding heads from letting loose is the Brothers' tendency to embellish their songs with improvised - and somewhat self-indulgent - jams. If they can tighten-up their set, those frenzied dance riots won't be far behind.