Peter Doherty: the one who likes crack and Kate Moss. Carl Barât: the one with the cigarettes and leather jackets. Gary Powell: the cheerful black American drummer. John Hassall: the guy who just stood there and swayed; the other Libertine. And yet it is the invisible, forgotten Hassall, once Libertines bassist, whose new band Yeti is doing something really exciting, far from the Libs knockoff we might expect. Yeti’s debut single Never Lose Your Sense of Wonder was released in 2005 to a wave of justified critical acclaim: it is a wonderful song, melodically perfect and uplifting without being saccharine. Thereafter they drifted: apparently they “got lost in the West End. They dug up a lot of the one-way streets, resulting in a no-way system. Our absence aided the buzz kill more than Buzz Killington; however, we didn't disappear, we actually released a second single and an EP, but nobody was interested.”

They resurfaced late last year, releasing Yume, which “is not an album, it is a mix-tape; it was a chance to release the British singles in Japan and fund the recording of the real album.” That “real album”, The Legend of Yeti Gonzales (one cannot claim for them a knack for snappy titles), is scheduled to appear on May 5, the culmination of three frustrating years; they are now coming to the end of a tour, and they played at – of all places – Soul Tree last Tuesday.

Yeti remind one most obviously of the La’s, with their simple yet profound pop songs which eschew any flourish or self-absorbed innovation. They will not shift your musical horizons in the same way as the Arcade Fire or Mars Volta can; yet this is still music to dance to, to laugh to (their track Insect-Eating Man is pure music-hall comedy) and to fall in love to. They say that they will never “merely copy the guy at number one. There will always be a place for melodic music, and for simple music; whether there is a place for Yeti music, only time will tell.”

However, much of the attention they get must be because of their frontman’s Libertines past. When asked whether this annoys them, they reply “Depends on the time of the month. Mostly the only people who are interested are newspapers and thirteen-year-olds. And usually they can't spell John's name and don't know which one he is, so it’s more amusing some days.” (For the record, it’s spelt Hassall and he’s the anodyne-looking bassist.) This must be disingenuous: much as they are a brilliant band, John’s background has been their main way in to the public consciousness.

Hassall himself is clearly irritated by the burden of his past: he claims to be “jealous of the others’ ability to get to the bar so quickly after a gig”, and when asked whether he would consider joining any Libertines reunion he simply replies “Would you?” He says of his ex-bandmates that he “still sees Gary and Carl occasionally” – an extremely laconic answer that cannot help but recall the unmentioned Doherty, whose conversion from musical hero to tabloid w reck has tarred the legacy of the Libertines, and by extension the unfortunate Yeti.

However, John is not entirely negative about his old band: he acknowledges that, while he always wanted to play his own songs, he did not mind playing those of Doherty and Barât: “they were good songs, and they still sounded relevant after playing them for ages.” He says now that “I feel as though I've moved on in many ways, but I did enjoy the Libertines immensely.” He certainly has moved on, and Yeti deserve to be celebrated as far more than a Libertines substitute: they are well on the way to being a truly great pop band.