At the Astoria on Friday, March 4

If Phil Collins and Don Henley have taught us anything, it’s that some drummers should just stay the fuck behind that kit. And if Iggy Pop and Jack White have taught us anything else, it’s the opposite. Suspended somewhere between these two stools—though leaning much closer to the latter, thank God—we have Malcolm Holt, the crazed trapsman who at one time wasn’t much more than a colourful blur in Fake Shark—Real Zombie!

But Holt has cleaned up real nice for his first effort as frontman. Even dwarfed by the handsome hollow-body guitar he took on-stage at the Astoria for his debut show with Malcolm and the Moonlight, we could still see enough of him to admire the modish duds and polite hair, and the way it all combined to make him look like the bastard son of Billy Childish and early Ringo Starr.

The music was similarly dandy. Running through a bunch of tracks from his just-released album, Moving Out, Holt revealed a gift for classically built guitar pop with a slight ’50s bent on opener “Bothered at All”, and a little soul on numbers like “Moving Out”. Or to put it another way, given Holt’s faintly wobbly but honest voice, Malcolm and the Moonlight sounded like Joel Plaskett without the grown-up, CBC–friendly subject matter and comfy-sweater vibe. (Holt’s concerns are a little more bedroom and heartbreak-oriented.)

Moreover, Holt’s cheerfully goofy persona is all his own. I don’t know if his grandfather is really named Shlomo Bernstein, but that’s who the wistful countrypolitan number “An Empty Seat” was dedicated to. By the end of the somewhat brief set, Holt and his partners—guitarist Adam Veenendaal (the Ludvico Treatment), bassist Daniel Knowlton (the Good News), and drummer Ryan Betts (the New Values)—were cracking up over their occasional fuckups and haphazard harmonies. Equally, when they peaked, as in their sexed-up take on “Moving Out”, the four-piece was remarkably silky.

Not that it mattered either way. As one punter put it, this was a night of friends playing to friends, featuring a ragged-but-right band that had put just enough practice into the enterprise. And pretty young things of both sexes turned out to lend support and look good doing it, which isn’t easy in American Apparel high-waisted, tan jodhpurs.

“We’re not very good,” Holt shrugged as drummer Betts led the Moonlight into a set-closing squall of white noise called “Sun Goddess” that turned out to be as vicious as the rest of the act intentionally wasn’t. And with that quick and slightly unexpected kick to the ass, they were gone.

Dustin Bromley and Jake Madison bookended the short but sweet performance with DJ sets that niftily captured our new posteverything era in which the Beatles, the Romantics, and Scissor Sisters are all equal, and all equally awesome. But it was Holt’s night, no matter how deliberately low-impact the whole show was. Why weren't Collins and Henley there taking notes? Because they're flaming assholes, that's why.