ACCORDING to local lore (or at least, according to the story I've heard and would like to believe), in days when a Nottingham bad 'un's life would finish at the end of a Government-sponsored rope, his final pint would be pulled at the Old Angel.

It makes logistical sense. The pub's location – Stoney Street, bestriding Hockley and the Lace Market – makes it a brief shackled walk to the home of the former gallows at the steps of the old Shire Hall.

It's also the sort of legend that sits well with a pub where hair is worn long, new piercings are admired and forefinger-and little finger-combinations are thrust aloft in irony-free pride.

For this, gentle reader, is a rock pub.

As the walls make clear.

The Angel's walls advertise musical events of a fairly specific nature. The Hallé's April 9 date with Haydn, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven and Mendelssohn didn't get a mention, although one poster near the bar informed me that "Evil Scarecrow needs you" (no worries, Evil Scarecrow – just let me deal with this pint and I'll be right there). Another featured a large skull with bat-winged ears. "No (expletive)er", it read. "Raw as (expletive)d-beat punk" (further perusal of the poster revealed that the raw-as-whatnot chaps were sharing a bill with "Murder Suicide Pact").

The rock theme extended to the bar, where you could order a pint of, well, Rock. That's not Rock of the "I hear Cleveland likes to ..." variety, but Rock Bitter, the excellent tipple from Nottingham Brewery. I sampled the Rock in due course, but first procured from the friendly, spectacularly tattooed barman a well-tended pint of Thieving Rogue from another outstanding local brewer, Magpie.

Local ales haven't always been on the Angel bar, and their presence is welcome. It's a stupid sort of lazy stereotyping that says real ale pubs all need walls adorned with old plates and the occasional bookshelf, while any place that cranks up the Metallica had better stick to Carling and Coors.

The presence of local ales on the Old Angel bar is one of a number of relatively recent improvements. Coats of paint seem to have been applied to walls; furniture looks patched or replaced. But it's a sort of subtle scrub-up...this is still a rawk pub.

But it's a rawk pub with space. The main ground-floor bar area splits into three rooms. On the pub's south side sits a long, narrow bar. It's where the punters seem to congregate first, a move that might have something to do with the jukebox nestled against one wall. A word of caution on the jukebox, by the way: if you and your nan have stopped off for a quick shandy before the matinee at the Broadway Cinema and you reckon she'll fancy some George Melly, this is probably not the jukebox for you (however if nan likes her lager top with a bit of Black Sabbath, you're in luck).

The wider north side splits into two sections – a large bar area gives way to a backroom featuring a well-aged pool table and a sofa of the sort often found in student accommodations or the front lawns of Tennessee.

If the music's not your thing, the main north bar will be your preferred haunt – a bit of jukebox bleeds over, but you don't have to ALTER YOUR SPEECH TOO MUCH to be heard.

Out back sits the long, narrow smokers' patio; upstairs is the small music venue that probably won't be hosting gentle acoustic folk nights anytime soon.

I was supping elsewhere that night, so I didn't have a chance to sample what are perhaps the most surprising delights of the new Angel – the food menu that boasts a not-insubstantial vegetarian selection.

Veggie rockers? Why, whatever next?

ERIK PETERSEN