Of all the bands worth paying tribute to, the Sex Pistols must be one of the toughest.

Along with a back catalogue barely big enough to fill a set, Sid Vicious and friends were a perfect reflection of the punk underclass they belonged to, offering ferocious anarchy thickly caked in venomous wit.

Trying to recapture such passion is as ambitious as it is admirable, yet there was an immediate, gnawing sense that these game pretenders were doomed to failure.

They certainly made the cut when it came to endeavour, refining the looks and attire of their idols to a fine point.

Frontman Johnny Forgotten gurned and hopped about, his manic caricaturing justifying the praise he has received from his deity.

It was hard to tell whether his bandmates had wilfully accepted their sacrifice of intrinsic poignancy for ridiculous impersonation, but begrudging these robust amateurs felt as churlish as consigning the Pistols' spirit to a bygone era.

They were both overblown and flat, thoroughly unconvincing yet bursting with eager desire, as powerless to improve their lot as athletes running through quicksand.

Even their tightly competent rendition of hits like Pretty Vacant met a tame reception, their task ultimately proving an impossible one.