French Funk Foundation (FFF), Bar City, New World Centre, May 22 The history of French pop music is not a glorious one. France did win the Eurovision Song Contest in 1977 - not much glory there though - but how many French rock, pop or funk songs can you whistle? (Celine Dion doesn't count - she's Canadian). All that deserves to change if FFF are anything to go by. Difficult to categorise at first, the racket they created was enough to make your boots vibrate: 90-odd minutes of earthy funk plugged straight into the main generator . . . swaggering, booming, almost rock-anthemic and irresistibly danceable. FFF are an odd-looking bunch, whose appearance might betray a crisis of confidence were it not an indicator of eclecticism. Singer Marco Prince emerged wearing an NYC baseball cap and felt obliged to work some rapping into the opening song. On removal of said cap he proved to be a dead ringer for basketball star Dennis Rodman, and leaped around similarly. Twitchy bassist Niktub wore a natty, one-piece lacy tablecloth over most of his body, and drummer Krichou revealed what Yannick Noah did when he stopped playing tennis. 'Oooh, they're all so beautiful,' cooed one - English - girl nearby. None of which bothered the raucous French kids doing their best punk pogos at the front of, and frequently on, the stage as the funk went into serious effervescence. Most were probably still buying their beer illegally . . . well, they were too young for Ecstasy. There was a glow of national pride around the room too. 'See?' they seemed to ask. 'A decent French band.' But FFF, for all their joyous attitude and infectious rhythm, can't deny that although the music, and not the words, is their forte, if they sang in English they would be stadium stars by now. Perhaps that wouldn't be a good thing, but they warrant a bigger stage than that of a small club. They've been around since 1991 and made five albums, but the world is still missing out on something exceptional.