of connection to Playlouder.com. Knowing the general quality of music journo bands, I approach the front of the room with caution, as they take to the stage to the strains of their own intro music, and introduce themselves through a toy megaphone. Alarm bells start to echo around my head, only to increase when the singer joins his band onstage with a mop of blonde hair and a bright white flared suit.

Fortunately, far from being Gay Dad mk II, Piranha Deathray manage to combine showmanship and hairstyles with a catchy art rock mash up, which took a little from Pink Grease's cabaret sleaze punk and the gloomy decadence of The Birthday Party, while never quite living up to either.

And speaking of birthdays, it's their guitarists birthday today (you see how I worked that - seamless), and before they're allowed to launch into their final number, he's presented with a large box, tied with a lovely pink ribbon, which turn out to be full of scarily iced but rather tasty chocolate biscuits for the whole crowd to share, Hooray!

flexibility and a front man with a burning intensity in his eyes and a fondness for singing with the index finger of his left hand raised (see picture), 1984 begin to breathe some life into what had until now been an appreciative, but static crowd. Asses are wiggled, funky stuff is strutted, and smiles are spread across the faces of all present.

The set goes on maybe just one song too long, but after such an eclectic and infectious show, we can forgive them this one over indulgence.

Up to this point, it had all been a bit new to me, having never heard any of the bands, but that was all about to change, with a parade of

some of the most promising bands in London (and one from Cardiff) set about pleasuring the ears of the ever increasing throng.

First up were Joyfest veterans Ciccone, whose sassy guitar sound melded the recent past and present of UK guitar music to perfection - a dash of Britpop here, a smattering of artrock, and a healthy spoonful of good old fashioned indie adding up to a sound that managed to be both fresh and familiar at the same time.

Ciccone seem to have been around for ever, and this is borne out in the enthusiastic reception that they receive, particularly from the other bands present, and their perky, bouncy tunes, punctuated by Rebekah's alluring vocals and Damo's furious drumming force the crowd to reciprocate the energy being projected from the stage.

indie psychodelia that their set begins. 'Nexus' is as beautiful as ever, but it no longer stands out amongst their set, which has been bolstered with a mixture of new songs and reworked oldies.

The songs still skip around with masterfully timed changes in tempo and volume, Chris Sklav's drumming dictating the pace, and allowing Arnold's peculiar vocals to meander around the tunes as they wish.

By the end of the set, I barely remember 'Nexus' being played at all, and people are passing the band notes on stage asking to have their t-shirts (which the band politely decline).

turn on again. As a result, I spend much of the first three songs of their set fiddling with buttons, rolling batteries and wishing death on everyone who ever worked for the Fuji camera company.

Eventually, having given up on the faulty lump of plastic, I return my attention to the furious fug of distortion that is building up around my ears. The Fades appear to have two settings: fast and loud, and fucking fast and loud. Both are effective when at their best: 'Social Misfits' sees them bare their teeth for a vicious barbed guitar assault, and 'Another Song About Motorbikes' is a proper full on knees up for which they are joined onstage by Eddie Argos, Jim Rhesus and Keith TOTP, all of whom would be appearing onstage later; but they need a few more songs like these to elevate

Speaking of which, up next are festival organisers Rhesus - a band who proudly wear their punk influences on their sleeves, but vitally come out with a sound that is very much their own.

Singer/guitarist Jim has been nervously pacing up and down the venue for much of this afternoon, and manages to convert this nervous energy into a blazing storm of artpunk - blaring guitars rip like an explosion in the Marshall amp factory, Arron's pounds the skins of his drums to breaking point, and Jim and Wayne spit their vocals into the mics with venomous glee.

I'd always rated Rhesus as a band before tonight, but their performance outstripped everything that I thought them capable of, and elevated them in my esteem from a good band with a lot of potential, to something genuinely special - a band that could escape the backrooms of London pubs and change people's lives.

should be no turning back.

'Proper' headliners tonight are pop noir indie crooners Luxembourg, whose well observed indie pop tunes are lapped up by an enthusiastic crowd. Frontman David Shah possesses a touch of the slightly camp charm once ladled out by Jarvis Cocker, and there is a definite link between Luxembourg's mix of shimmering keyboards, jaunty guitars and darkly comic lyrics and those of Pulp in their 90s prime.

Musically, Luxembourg offer the indie staples of steady rhythms and catchy hooks, but its Shah's poise and clever lyrical inflections that levitate them above the norm.

By the end of the set, he's wandering amongst the crowd, surrounded by smiles and swirls of keyboards, before clambering back onstage to end the set on his knees.

First up, we get Art Brut 4, a bunch of kids with cheap instruments who colour in the keys of their synths, and play three songs of messy, shouty indie punk, involving a singer with a mouth full of metal and one member whose sole contribution appears to be to press the on button on the drum machine and write "ME! " on a large sheet of plain paper. From any serious critical position, they're awful, but that's not what tonight's about - they give it their all and as they come off, I hear the guitarist enthuse to her bandmates "We're a real band now!", and it makes my heart leap.

The members of Art Brut 69 should probably know better - for a start, they're all in proper bands (with the exception, as far as I'm aware of bassist Ed Idiot). In fact, one of them is actually in Art Brut!

None of this seems to matter though, as we are treated to half formed guitar thrashes and elegies to recently departed genii Ikara Colt, while singer James Rocks reads his lyrics from a scrap of paper being held by a helpful crowd

some random local bloke who's wandered in off the street and spends the whole set screaming in his best Eastenders cockney for them to do him praahd.

Finally, we get 'supergroup' The Fallingovers, featuring, it would appear, just about every single person in the entire venue, amongst them Eddie, Chris and Mike from Art Brut, James Rocks, Ed Idiot, Keith TOTP and probably many more besides.

They rattle clumsily through versions of The Rocks' 'Es' and an acapella version of one of Eddie & Keith's other band The Art Goblins' anthemic 'Fuck The Manic Street Preachers' (featuring the charming vocal refrain of "Nicky Wire can suck my cock", repeated

ad infinitum). It's a ludicrous, hilarious train wreck of a set, which ends leaving the crowd screaming for more. The Fallingovers oblige, launching into 'Art Brut Top of the Pops', inviting yet more members onto The Pleasure

Units' tiny stage to scream "TOP OF THE POPS!" into the mic, before Eddie launches himself into the crowd, thrusting his mic randomly into the faces of the heaving throng, inviting us all to take part.

We end, shattered from eight straight hours of indie punk, and smiling maniacally at what we've just seen - bands aren't supposed to be like that, they're supposed to know how their songs go and how to play their instruments, but none of that matters at all when bombarded with the wit and enthusiasm that we've seen today - a group of bands having a laugh, getting together for a good cause (raising £515 for the Tsunami Appeal) and not giving a fuck about what they look like whilst doing it, and a crowd willing not just to let them get away with it, but to throw themselves into it completely - this isn't your ordinary London crowd, propping up the bar and casting cynical comment over anything not yet approved by the NME, but a group of genuine music fans here to enjoy themselves.

As we stagger deliriously back to the tube station, and small crowd is

Review and photos by Paul Madden

For more of Paul's photos from this event, click here.
For some lovely black n white pics by Pete Dodds, click here.

www.godisinthetvzine.co.uk
artbrut.nikkidido.com
www.luxembourgweb.co.uk
www.rhesus.info
www.thefades.co.uk
www.theikplus.co.uk
www.ciccone.co.uk
1984 Messageboard
www.thejessicaquestion.com