I show up at The Garage determined not to be a jaded old muso wanker, which often precludes me being such, unfortunately. I can’t help it; gigs at venues like this bring out the cynic in me. At first it seems like I’m gonna be, as there’s a support band that hurt my ears and make me wish I was at home wrapped in a blanket listening to Alan Stivell. Why, I wonder, are these people trying to hard and sounding so lame? There’s nothing worse; all that straining and yelling and perforated throats and six-string scree and for what? For a kind of harsh, hurting, annoying…nothing. I don’t know who they are, and have no desire to.

And then TV On The Radio start up with a low, simmering rumble, punctuated with hand percussion and thundering drums, ominous and dirty and YEAH HERE WE GO THAT’S MORE LIKE IT. We find a space that isn’t a gangway and forget about the horrible sweaty indie pit that is The Garage, and even though we’re way too far from the stage, we’re loving it. See, I was worried I wouldn’t like them. Fuck knows why, when they’ve got the closest thing to Malcolm Mooney on vocals. Fuck knows why, when they make me wish I was on a dancefloor kickin’ up my heels (not a sticky indie venue floor, where your heels just get welded to beer and flyers for bad clubs). Fuck knows why, when they’re one of the first proper full-on organic tense loose meshing-together-falling-apart bands I’ve seen in ages.

I stand so corrected it’s funny. I’m not even standing corrected, I’m dancing corrected. I like it when that happens. We agree that they’re too far away, that they could be bigger and louder, but nonetheless Merek is inspired to grow his hair BIG this winter, and I am inspired to, well, go home and listen to their album all over again.

Only I think I’ll save it for the morning, when I might need some of that righteous energy they have coming out of every finger and toe. So I go over to the shelves of music and try something quiet and nice. But, oh fuck it, look, it’ll have to be Fela, who sounds so godamm wiry and ace when you play him late night intstead of daytime (which is usually when he goes on in this house).

“My new favourite band!” said Kraftwerk Man, who I bumped into after the show, as I was unlocking my bike. He does have a real name, but we once had a stunning dance-off at a Kosmische Kraftwerk party so he’ll forever be Kraftwerk Man to me. High praise from the London Krautrock Massive, then. Not that TV On The Radio need it, mind.