ANVAR KHAN meets a band with no qualms about their lack of

musicianship.

BABYJUNKWORM are a band who have no illusions about the quality of

their music. They readily admit they cannot play their instruments --

guitar, drums, bass and keyboard. Neither can they sing. Their

compilation tape of original material is a glorious testimony to the

fact that in the world of amateur pop, any chancer who fancies himself

as a pop star can inflict mince on the public ear.

Listening to Babyjunkworm, the idea that musical instruments should be

so extortionately expensive, that no-one but the most serious and

dedicated would bother saving up to buy one, becomes very attractive.

Anyone can pick up a guitar, anyone can have access to a studio to

record, anyone can call themselves a musician.

Such opportunity, democratic as it may be, positively dumps on quality

control. The result is a live gigging scene where even a modicum of

talent comes across as worldbeating rock. Scotland's music scene on a

grassroots level, has the same calibre of product as the Edinburgh

Festival. There may be a lot to see, but you can bet your last fiver

that nine times out of ten you'll see substandard entertainment which

barely passes as mediocre.

Considering the band's frankness about their lack of talent (they

sound like schoolkids trying to impersonate early Depeche-Mode, without

the harmonies), Babyjunkworm come across as deluded. They believe they

are the ''best band in Scotland''. Lead singer and guitarist, Grant

Robson, begins his attempt to convince me of the band's alleged

individualism by correcting me on his surname. ''It's Worm'' he says,

''Grant Worm''.

Grant has a real reluctance to say anything straightforward or honest.

On ambition: ''Babyjunkworm are driving the bandwagon not jumping on

it''. On the imminent demo: ''We expect to be signed up and playing

Wembley in September.'' On success: ''I was born to be a pop star, I'm

just not famous yet.'' On band integrity: ''We're a bunch of fakes.''

Arrogance is not that interesting, as Grant ''Worm'' has sussed. He

backs up premeditated quips with a store of weird comments which he

distributes liberally, just in case I don't believe he's deep as well as

superficial. He tells me he sees Babyjunkworm members as Disney

characters with no pupils and asks me if I find that scarey. I don't.

Babyjunkworm are not precious, but they take a juvenile delight in the

ability to shock. Grant tells me about his last job, working in Tate and

Lyle in Greenock, but only because he hopes I might keel over in

disgust. ''My job was to test the size of crushed cattle bones which

they burn down to charcoal and use to decolourise sugar. I had to get

anthrax jags''.

For all the cynicism that performing music as a joke or dumb pastime

demands, the band are not actually cynical about life. This is the great

anomaly in Babyjunkworm. They are musical delinquents, but their songs

are all about the right to be exactly the person you want. But one man's

self-expression is this reviewer's agony.

It was when Grant Robson sat watching a documentary on BBC2 by David

Attenborough that he came up with the name for the band. The programme

focused on baby termites called junkworms. ''They live off rubbish,'' he

says ''just like us''. Sure, but they don't produce it.

On a brighter note, top of the range demos from as-yet unsigned bands

include Perfect World and Wah Wah Jack, and suggest there's still plenty

of talent on the Scottish club scene.

Paul Crolla, Rico, Tomaso Capuano, Ed Kilday and Paul Mitchell are

Perfect World. Their demo features three tracts, its I Hate Today, The

Storm and Turn Back. Theirs is a highly aggressive, muscular sound. Rico

punches out reprisals like Tyson in a room full of banamweights.

The band sing about frustration. ''I'm not alive'' grills Rico, ''I'm

just breathing. I watch all my dreams slip away, through a crack in the

ceiling.'' This is not bedsit fury, these are not the lazy thoughts of a

latent, sociopathic crazy. Perfect World are on a campaign against

powerlessness. ''I can't stand feeling this way'' pitches Rico, ''I hate

today''. The band manufacture the impression that if you get angry

enough you can do anything. Their attack on the Scottish music scene, a

scene which they describe as a ''quagmire of mediocrity'', is merely an

extension of their commitment to have some kind of interesting life. The

posers they plaster all over the city before a gig advertise their

positive attitude to their career and to their work. ''Apathy Sucks!''.

Perfect World produce a passionate, solid sound, the machinery of

base, drums and keyboard thrash about like a harpooned whale. They

describe themselves as the ''Grim reapers of pop''. The band are moody,

intense and good.

Wah Wah Jack, another unsigned Glasgow band, are four. Philip

Campbell, Colin MacRitchie, Alasdair MacDonald and Alastair Cochrane

have an average age of 20. Nevertheless, their own particular home-grown

brand of piano-based blues owes more to Chris Kristofferson, Billy Joel,

Jack Daniels and Malboro than current purveyors of countryfied soul.

Vocalist and songwriter Philip Campbell has a serious rasp in his

voice, something akin to a chain-smoking laboratory beagle. He soars

through the 4-track demo, which includes numbers Miss Uravicci, Receive

Me, Lose Your Mind and Find. Wah Wah Jack are currently producing high

quality, original material.

* Babyjunkworm play Helter Skelter at The Venue, Sauchiehall Street,

Glasgow, tonight. Both Perfect World and Wah Wah Jack will be gigging

around Glasgow in the near future.