Samara Lubelski, Taurpis Tula and the MV and EE Medicine Show played a show beneath a loud pub in central London. We came to see Taurpis Tula, mostly. Because of who is in Taurpis Tula, you see, and what they’ve done in the past. And I was fascinated, too, by the relationship between the two musicians, one small and dark, the other long and blonde. This isn’t prurient, or at least I don’t think it is: the bond between them is so out in the open, so spoken, so integral to their work, that I feel justified in my interest. Having sworn myself never to start a band with my lover - or indeed any lover, ever again, I squeeze his hand tightly as David Keenan’s guitar, with a sound like fool’s gold crunching underfoot, perhaps, or the sparks flying from rubbed together flints, cuts shapes around Heather Leigh Murray’s vague, desperately serious, channelled-sounding vocal and lap steel drifts. Instead of synergy, a meeting of hearts and sounds, I hear them more as two opposing forces moving in very different directions. Two distinct musical colours that are seeking some kind of alchemical fusion, almost willing it to happen. But afterwards you say they were like two different bands - or did I say that? I can’t remember.

I feel all aswim in the tunings that pull my head this way and that, and the opposing tensions from the different actions I can hear: the scratch and the slide, the rough and the infinitely, cruelly smooth. Sometimes I’m irritated: I want to take Heather’s mouth and hands and guide them to the ‘right’ note, or away from that one she’s about to do. Then I am irritated at myself for wanting to. Then I am lost again.

I remember the gig I played before I went to Berlin and could only listen to micro-house and electronic noise for a week. It was all slides and singing, drones and scrapes. I wonder if my misgivings anything to do with that: too close for comfort, perhaps, although completely different.

I like to think so, because I do so want to love Taurpis Tula. I think I will love them on record, on my own, in the dark. Moments of beauty ripple out of their music, and you follow the ripple until it’s out of sight and then you hope so hard for the next one. I can wait. I’m learning to be patient.

My friends and I agree that we need an American journalist to come over here and ‘discover’ New Weird London, the way that Keenan seems to have done in the US. Suddenly our living-room droneouts and back-room psych-folk and all day improv will have people hanging on our every note and we might even get to go on tour and on the cover of Arthur or something.

But on the way to the bus stop we forget all about music for at least five minutes on discovering the beauty that is Royal Institute of British Architects building, late at night, purple-lit.

Wow.

If anyone has a link to a better picture of this building, please let me know.