What would you expect of a band that goes by the name of George Washington’s Penis?  Ironic Americana?  Comedy pop-punk?  Avant garde synth noodlings?  According to their PR: ‘Asked to describe their sound lead singer Chip said “USA! USA! USA! Touch my dong!” before falling over sideways.’  Not much help there, then.

But any guesses related to the activities of George Washington’s Penis would most likely be incorrect, as it is in fact a pseudonym used by New York’s lately lauded The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart for their secret gig at the tiny Buffalo Bar.  The false name was not the only reference to early American history; frontman Kip Berman announced that he intended to play thirteen songs, one for each of the original colonies.

This tally presumably excluded the introductory sonic preamble, a protracted smear of feedback apparently intended to shatter the inner ear bones of the audience.  Before beginning the repertoire of actual songs, Berman explained that he wanted to watch everyone cover their ears.  The Pains made the brave decision to play this show without a setlist, but winged it well enough; the pauses they took to choose songs only added to the intimate vibe.

They began with a few of their more easy-going numbers, jangly indie-pop seasoned with a strong dose of fuzziness.  Then, as they moved onto their more energetic material, the likes of ‘103’ and ‘This Love Is Fuckin’ Right’, they really came into their element and, from there, they didn’t let up.  The audience, a mixture of kids with asymmetric haircuts, and middle aged men presumably nostalgic for the glory days of The Jesus And Mary Chain, reacted with all the enthusiasm the small space would permit.  A speaker mounted on a stand to one side of the crowd’s bustle began to wobble precariously, threatening injury to whoever jostled it at the wrong time.

It wasn’t a perfect set: Berman failed to hit all his notes at times, and the new material offered up here was pretty hit and miss.  But there was a lot to enjoy in this show.  In particular, there was something rather heartening about hearing the repeated refrain ‘We will never die’ of The Pains’ eponymous set-closer.  In the cosily crowded atmosphere, this line, which could easily have sounded trite, made for an endearing moment.

Halfway through The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart’s set, when the New York four piece were really getting into their groove, the tall guy in front of me – the tall guys always stand in front of you, it’s gig law – whipped out his iPhone and started texting furiously. Colour me nosy, but I accidentally just happened to peer straight over his shoulder and read: “I’m stuck at some indie bullshit surrounded by bouncing nerds and I can’t stand it any more.” Now, ‘indie’ I will most certainly grant you. And yes, the nerds were unmistakably bouncing; even this reviewer was vibrating gently in his Vans. ‘Bullshit’ though? This is where Mister Text and I part company, because along with the rest of the packed Scala crowd I was having a marine mammal of the order Cetacea of a time.

Mind you, the omens were good from the start; Scala is probably my favourite venue – well-designed, good acoustics and, for whatever reason, attended by people who don’t act like total dicks. This feeling of fuzzy well-being was turned up to eleven thanks to the first band of the evening, Allo Darlin’. A chirpy tweecore quartet fronted by ukulele-wielding Aussie Elizabeth Morris (also in the new Tender Trap line-up, if memory serves), Allo Darlin’ got the crowd stoked with a bevy of excellent tunes including the downright lovely ‘Henry Rollins Don’t Dance’, which pictures the hardcore legend bopping happily to Abba.

Next up were Dalston trio Male Bonding, who sported a lo-fi punky/grunge sound, enthusiastic drumming and the world’s most echoey vocals mic. Sadly, I wasn’t massively impressed by these dudes – nice year zero guitar noise, but not much else – so I’ll pass on rapidly to the night’s main event; The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, henceforth known as POBPAH.

For a New York group, POBPAH seem to have suckled long at the teat of UK indie – at times they sounded like the ‘roided up offspring of Morrissey and Belle & Sebastian, which conjures up a mental image that all the wire wool in the world won’t scrub clean. Looking like an inexplicably cool school science club, vocalists Kip Berman and Peggy Wang, bassist Alex Naidus, drummer Kurt Feldman and added-for-the-tour guitarist Christoph Hocheim kicked off with a feisty rendition of ‘This Love Is Fucking Right!’ and proceeded to step high, wide and handsome for the rest of their time on stage. Who knew that shoegaze indie could rock the fuck out? The nerds were bouncing indeed. Hell, a smattering of check-shirted geek girls and boys even threw up the horns in the approved let-us-drink-from-the-goblet-of-rock stylee.

It was that sort of a gig – I kinda dug POBPAH’s studio debut, but hearing the band rip into ‘Young Adult Friction’ and ‘The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart’ live warmed the cockles of my cold dead heart. I even passed up the chance to jump on the toes of friend texter, which just goes to show the healing power of song. Selah.