The ballyhoo that surrounds this year's Camden Crawl is frankly baffling. It is well supported, there are dozens of decent bands and it is run with military precision. These are all traits that were notably missing from the original Crawl, which was why it foundered, unloved and unlamented, around 1997. About as cutting edge as it ever got was Tiger Tiger and the Warm Jets at the time when the singer was knocking around with Zoe Ball and that was a big deal. I remember standing in almost empty venues for nearly an hour before someone sweeping the floor told me that the band I was expecting had cancelled and they were calling it an early night. In contrast, tonight's slick and hugely impressive jamboree is like a mega-budget Hollywood remake.
There are seven of us in our party and although we have all agreed roughly what we want to see, there is obviously leeway for changes of plan.
We start off in Lock Thingy Dingwalls for Art Brut. There are three thousand people trying to get served at the bar at the same time. I give it up as a bad job. Art Brut get better each time I see them and tonight they are in imperious form. However, they are a polarising band and you either love 'em or hate 'em. So soon my group is soon reduced to three as others leave in search of alcohol and different musical treats. Their loss, because the Brut tear the place apart and have a packed house laughing and pogoing with delight.
My reduced posse then scarper down the road and squeeze into the Underworld. There are three thousand people trying to get served at the bar at the same time. I give it up as a bad job. We head into the throng at the foot of the stage for …
…Sons and Daughters, who may be the most fiercely intimidating band around. Their sound is absolutely brutal, a simple but thunderous drum rhythm and a Celtic intensity that batters the audience into submission. Almost literally so, because when at one point a piece of equipment goes missing from the stage, the sinuous Mata Hari that is singer Adele says sternly in her best Glaswegian "I wan' ma tambourine!" which is followed by the sound of a hundred indie kids cacking themselves and the missing instrument being returned pronto. The set continues, a combination of Bad Seeds malice and country stomp. A great band, but one who could give nightmares to those of a tender disposition.
Getting out of the Underworld is almost as hard as getting in, but we pop out like corks from a bottle and shoot back up the road to see the return of Kaito. The venue is much emptier than earlier and drink is finally purchased. Kaito have been working on their new album over the past few months and tonight is the debut of their fresh set. On record they are frustratingly tinny (their track on this year's complimentary Crawl CD sounds like a toddler hitting a plastic bucket), but live the Kaito experience is akin to sticking your head next to a jet engine going full blast with a shopping trolley chewing up inside it. Tonight they are devastating and those who did not witness them can hold their man and womanhoods cheap etc. Kaito are almost unique in that they play great and wonderful songs which stick in your head yet which are completely unsingable or even hummable. The vocals of Nikki and Gemma are as much part of the overall maelstrom as the effects mad Dave's guitar or Dieta's jackhammer drumming. I look upwards expecting to see the sky, because they've blown the roof off this venue.
It is now time for the final bands of the evening and I have a bit of a dilemma in that I am going to see most of them in the next couple of weeks anyway and to see them would be like unwrapping a Christmas present early. The queues for Le Tigre at the Barfly and the Subways at the Canaervon Castle are prohibitive so I default to the Electric Ballroom for the Buzzcocks.
A pal who has found us again tells tales of The Chalets wearing bunnygirl outfits and I also get drunken phone calls extolling the virtues of The Infadels and the Black Velvets.
Surprise, surprise, the bar at the Electric Ballroom has three thousand people trying to get served at the same time. It is the most congested of any venue so far and a kind of Blitz spirit breaks out, with complete strangers telling war stories and buying rounds on behalf of those in less fortunate positions.
My group has mostly reformed, apart from those who are at Secret Machines at the Underworld. The Buzzcocks come on and play their greatest hits. And while the songs are unsurpassable, it is sad to say that Pete Shelley's voice is completely shot and they cut a sorry sight. Leaving a friend dancing in the dark, we head out.
The queues for Secret Machines are ridiculous, and I am later told that the band have had major technical difficulties and are running very late. In desperation we head off to the Oh! Bar for Hell Is For Heroes. But even here there is a queue, and we give up, heading to a non-Crawl venue for a wind down.
It has been a proper Camden Crawl - three great bands seen and much chaos and confusion. A real adventure. Well done to all involved and roll on next year.
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