A rudimentary knowledge of world history supplemented by five minutes trawling the internets has left me with the conviction that there are two distinct sorts of anarchist. There’s the Kick-Ass, whose average morning consists of assassinating a reactionary archbishop whilst simultaneously flipping Franco the bird and getting oral from some 1930s scene chick. And then there’s type two, the Total Pussy, who believes that nose piercings are pretty edgy and that finding a cure for cancer is so totally not worth it if some fluffy-wuffy bunnies have to get hurt in the process. I’m hoping that hardcore fans of anarco-folk-punk-hyphen-genre-enthusiasts The Levellers belong to the latter variety, because I have a shameful confession to make – since the band’s formation way back in the Pre-Cambrian Era, this reviewer has resolutely failed to give a toss about them. As such, last year’s über gig at the Albert Hall to celebrate their 20^th anniversary rather passed me by, which is a pity if the resulting live CD album is anything to go by.

While you’re not getting the entire concert – the recording equipment crashed and burned during the show, apparently – the ten tracks on offer provide a decent mix of old and new, with tunes taken from ‘A Weapon Called The Word’, ‘Levellers’, ‘Zeitgeist’, ‘Mouth To Mouth’ and latest album ‘Letters From The Underground’. It’s good to discover that, to my non-Levellers attuned ear at least, the newer stuff stands up well alongside ye olde hits – honours for standout track are split between 1993’s melancholy ‘Julie’ and 2008 single ‘Before The End’.

Other high points include harmonica-heavy agitpop ‘Together All The Way’, rumbustious crowd-pleaser ‘Men-An-Tol’ and the anthemic ‘Chemically Free’. Sadly, ‘Live At The Royal Albert Hall’ does commit one major war crime in the shape of the retardedly awful ‘This Garden’. It speaks to the high quality of dope available in 1993 that there were enough epically stoned people in the country to push this unholy melange of didgeridoo drone and half-arsed rap to the dizzying heights of #12 in the UK Singles Chart. Cower in shamefaced self-loathing, early ’90s Britain.

Assuming, however, that you bury track nine at the crossroads with a stake through its heart, I’ve got to say that this is a pretty decent live album; the band are on good form, there’s an interesting range of songs and the sound quality is top notch. It may not win any new converts, but ‘Live At The Royal Albert Hall’ is well worth popping into the low-fat, biodegradable, fair trade Christmas stocking of your favourite Levellers’ fan.

Listening to the Bookhouse Boys is a bit like living inside a hip, modern western. On the other side of the camera Tarantino or Rodriguez may be calling the shots, but over here vampire girls are dancing tables at the truckstop while sad-eyed mariachi hide guns in their guitar cases.

Retro cool is a narrow line to walk – one misstep and you’re knee-deep in pastiche – but the Bookhouse Boys don’t put a foot wrong. Fronted by a boy-girl vocal combo of Paul Van Oestren and Catherine Turner, the nine strong group’s throbbing surf guitar mixes with Latino trumpet flourishes, heavy drum action and Spaghetti Western oohs to great effect. Songs such as ‘Dead’ and ‘Tonight’ sound pretty damn good coming through my headphones on the Tube, but when played live they seize hold of the old frontal cortex and demand – demand, sir – to be heard.

Anyone who was swept away by the Bookhouse Boys’ debut album last year (and there sure seem to be a lot of you out there) really should get along to a gig; the band’s widescreen, cinematic sound combined with Van Oestren’s molasses tones to fill every last nook and cranny of Hoxton Bar.

Slightly perversely, then, one of my favourite songs of the evening was new tune ‘Oh Lord’, which laid the mariachi noodling to one side in favour of a simpler, stripped down gospel sound – I was reminded of St. Jude’s Infirmary’s rather wonderful ‘The Church of John Coltrane’. There’s a tendency among indie music fans to shun bands once great unwashed begin to take an interest and I can see the Bookhouse Boys taking off, so enjoy them to the max while you can. Who knew Dick Dale and Deadwood would get along so well?

A small thunderstorm had just showered the Hyde Park crowd with fat rain drops when Fleet Foxes trudged onto the stage, looking like five Shaggy’s that had just stumbled out of the Mystery Machine. Drummer Josh Tillman acknowledged the sponsor stage and emphasised the bands purist philosophy by dryly commenting that: “Hard Rock Cafe was the reason they all became musicians” and that he fondly remembered “being taken for an ‘Aerosmith burger’ as a boy!”.

Following some elaborate harmonising and sound checks, Fleet Foxes started slowly with a couple of softer vocal numbers, which were unfamiliar to most of the crowd. Things soon picked up with the familiar strains of ‘Sun it Rises’ and ‘Your Protector’ and in succession as they appear on the album, excellent versions of ‘White Winter Hymnal’ and ‘Ragged Wood’ rang out, full of energy and invention. Lead Singer Robin Pecknold was left alone onstage to deliver a flawless version of ‘Oliver James’, though the second solo song that followed was less impressive and the crowd frankly seemed a little relieved when the rest of the band returned onstage.

Hyde Park then roared it’s appreciation when Fleet Foxes launched into ‘Mikonos’. An impressive set that gathered pace towards the end and finished on a high with an outstanding performance of the gorgeous ‘Blue Ridge Mountains’.

So I’m running late for the gig and I aint in the best of moods, works shit but its work I suppose, the Glastonbury ticket never arrived (couldn’t afford it) and the prospect of facing the fast approaching future in debt and despair is frankly not what I signed up for.

So I get to the gig only to find the girl that I am bringing down as my plus one (long term friend, new found love) is not my plus one because I don’t have a plus one (thanks editor!) so I do whatever self respecting lying cheating scoundrel does and tell her to wait outside while I work my silver tongue magic on the unsuspecting, unsettling and downright unnerving looking women on the door.

‘Your cool as fuck, your cool as fuck, your cool as fuck your cool as fuck’ the mantra in my head repeats over and over until I reach my destination, roll up my sleeves and beam a big beaming grin at the aforementioned dragon. Honestly readers this aint George and the Dragon but Chris and the bitch because she turns me down quicker than a tramp looking for a lap dance. So faced with the option turning up empty handed to my date…. to protect her modesty lets call her…….. Fiona. I swallow my ever demising pride and buy her a ticket. This is all forgotten when I suavely saunter outside holding two tickets to Slow Club at the ICA.

Before I tell you about the gig a word must be said for the ICA and apart from its staffing policy I can’t fault it. It’s perfectly position in the shadow of the palace just on the left as you parade up the mall. The night is one of those perfect summer evening where London just looks beautiful and you forget about crunches and crack heads. So after getting drinks at the bar (pint for me and a white wine for the lady Fact fans) we head into the gig.

Now I hate sweating I find it repulsive and the thought it has just made me gag on my red stripe but I put up with it in certain situations and this is one of them. The walls are sweating tonight but the people inside are just to fucking nice for it to be a problem. Not in a nice Coldplay way but in a way that in every group of mates you have a muso friend (John in mine fact fans) who likes good music and is just an all round nice person. Well every last checked shirted bastard in this place might as well be called John (I shout it to do an impromptu test and three people turned round) and that’s the world Slow club inhabit and its lovely.

They start the gig by coming in from the doors and ripping into the b–side of their new single ‘Wild Blue Milk’ right there in the middle of the floor and those big beaming grins are back but on everyone’s faces not just mine this time. There fucking brilliant Slow Club and I can’t put my finger on why they are but they are, maybe it’s the self deprecating Yorkshire charm, maybe it’s the between song stories of parking fines or maybe, fluff lines or just the tunes. The rollicking and rousing drums of Rebecca and Charles’ guitar strings shuffle just fit and before you know it you’re a signed up soldiers of the Slow Club army.

The reason we are all here tonight varies I imagine, but the main reason is the launch of the single ‘It Doesn’t Have To Be Beautiful’ a great single by a great band and I urge nay, I implore you stop reading this piffle and go and buy it!

At 7pm Enter Shikari begin their showcase of their sophomore album ’Common Dreads’. With only a smidgen of alcohol passing the lips of the audience and this early showing, some may have thought that this could lend to a sombre atmosphere, they couldn’t have been much more wrong. With indie scamps aplenty, the avid adolescent following of Enter Shikari were the size of a small sweaty army. Near on immediately, a whirlpool of flailing arms and half naked torso’s swirled somewhat aggressively around the venues floor.

And it was a humbling moment for the St Albans amalgamates, morphing their screamo, rock, drum n’ bass and techno together, and more importantly surprisingly well to my amazement. Well at least I, were to be the only one to doubt their furious beats. Rou Reynolds does his now highly publicized, unintentional impression of Mike Skinner sublimely well. The new songs are delivered with aggression yet superb tightness, none more than new single ‘Juggernauts’ that has the collage of young scrotes moshing like little shits around me, my watching eyes looking out for any pre-pubescent twat that may whisk me off my feet at any moment. But fortunately I was not to be pulled into the ungodly cauldron of sweat.

The drum n’ bass of ‘Zzzonked’ is a refulgent barrage of serrated beats and ‘The Jester’ has equal oomph in their set. I never thought it would happen but, tonight, Enter Shikari have categorically and resoundingly won me over with their hallucinogenic onslaughts and abrasive soundscapes. Why thank you boys, I will more than likely enter your world again!

After a sterling opening from Swedish rockers Mando Diao- admittedly having walked in two songs from the end- the HMV Forum is packed to its picturesque rafters. Their set closer ‘Dance With Somebody’ had the crowd formatively moving their limbs in accordance to these young rockers.

…But really there’s only one reason why we’re here, isn’t there? To see the most coveted band of 2009; The Gaslight Anthem. The buzz that’s surrounding this New Jersey quartet is somewhat vast, yet, wholly deserved for their explosive bursts of anthemic tunes, soulful streams of beatific punk at it’s most potent and their heartfelt blues that makes your heart skip two beats, not just one. They’ve been taken to the American hearts as the predecessors of a certain Bruce Springsteen, they already have a job on their hands to meet the hype that they are being greeted with after second album ‘59 Sound’.

Brian Fallon has always come across a ostensible, working class, humble fella, and tonight is no exception- a beaming smile engulfs his face as a raucous ovation bellows from the belly of the Forum, as he emerges from behind the curtain. And his smile widens further as he sees the venues packed with TGA fans and Springsteen fans awaiting a look at their idols successors. Atmospherically, this is probably the height of what I, personally, have ever experienced at this historic venue. And, haven’t been quite this excited about a gig for many a year.

And, yes, it does take the guys a couple of songs to hit their peak. But once the opening riff of ‘Old White Lincoln’ swirls around the venue, it culminates in mass madness and they’ve arrived. As eagerly anticipated this has been, this is the time for catharsis, and all inhibitions are lost in a moment. ’59 Sound’ begins and it’s a continual snowball effect, rolling guitars and sumptuous rock vocals “The chains I’ve been hearing for most of life, did you hear the ’59 Sound coming from your Grandfather’s radio” seemingly blurted out of everyone’s mouths, to the amusement of Fallon.

A cover of ‘Stand By Me’ morphs into ’Miles Davis & the Cool’ triumphantly causing communal waves of joy within the crowd. Their a raggedy bunch though; Fallon emblazoned with tattoo’s; Alex Levine’s jolting and robotic jerks mimics Sacha Baron Cohen’s character Bruno, he like Bruno, clearly holds himself in high esteem; Alex Rosimillia hunches over his guitar throughout with his mane cover his face. But it‘s not about the aesthetics of The Gaslight Anthem, it goes much deeper than that.

They’ve got the songs (’Great Expectations’, ’The Patient Ferris Wheel’, ’High Lonesome’) there is no doubt. This summer is sure to be all about the prophetic rise of The Gaslight Anthem. My voice has left me, but, The Gaslight Anthem have not…Absolutely, categorically, one of the best bands ever to perform in front of my eyes. Mesmerising!

After being completely bowled over by Teitur’s second album ‘The Singer’ I waited with in trepidation in the ICA for the arrival of one the Faroe Isles greatest export to adorn us with his presence. And it was with that fear -that he may not match up to the pedestal standings, that I have so openly purveyed him worthy of to people- that I duly hoped he would live up to the album he so astutely and meticulously created.

Ambling onstage with his band, Teitur looked fearful of the audience that eagerly gazed his way. He was wearing braces upon his nimble frame, a jumper that was slightly pulled out of shape from a “touring-potbelly” that Teitur seems to have developed and his usual ashen skin still looks in great need of a couple hours of the sun‘s attention. But deep down it was inevitable that this night was going to be special!

‘We Drink The Same Water’ is the first song that really grips the audience and is performed with consummate ease, yet beautifully exquisite and thankfully not over-blown. The introduction of a string section begins with an attempt at a rendition of Jerry Lee Lewis’ ’Great Balls Of Fire’ only at somewhat slower grinding pace, played in the minor key, with Teitur unable to keep a straight face as croons out the chorus.

The upbeat ‘Catherine The Waitress’ dabbles in a shift of pace, yet still ultimately delectable. The minimalist ’Singer’ focuses as much on Teitur’s voice as the reverb of the buzzing cello that’s played by the side of him. “I sing because I want to be loved” he finishes with, well tonight Teitur is loved by everyone in the ICA. An intimate insight into the make-up of this Faroe Islander, culminating in a completely captivating live show.

If this review was to have been a sandwich – the nourishing slices of bread being Tom Stock and Wet Paint, with Welsh four piece The Muscle Club in the vital role of the oh-so-tasty filling. But the best laid plans o’ mice an’ men gang, as you’ve probably noticed yourself, aft agley, with my carefully crafted metaphor getting bent irrevocably out of shape by a barmaid’s confident assurance that the gigs never start before nine. ‘Oh really,’ he said, voice laden with sadly retrospective sarcasm, ‘Izzatso?’ Well, goddamn my loathsome tardiness, because a subsequent visit to the internets reveals Tom Stock to be indie guitar strummery draped with surprisingly delicate estuary-tinged vocals; nothing earth shattering, but a pretty fine start to an evening.

The other slice of bread in this – I guess now open-faced – sandwich was a more rocked-up outfit by the name of Wet Pain; three bearded guitar-wielders and a zebra dress wearing girl on drums. While songs such as ‘Hug It Out’ showed off Wet Paint’s grunge colours, there was something distinctly homegrown – Britpop even – about ‘Don’t Shave’ and the rather excellent ‘It Rots’. Kudos also to the bassist who spent much of the set with his back to the audience à la Mark E. Smith, giving my plus one, The Blonde Midfielder, ample time to study his half-uncovered boxers.

Even for the BM, however, the night’s main attraction was undoubtedly The Muscle Club, and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling to report that the Welsh lads were stone cold awesome. Playing songs from their upcoming EP ‘Fragmented Ideas From Young Lungs’ plus a few new ‘uns, The Muscle Club sound an awful lot like fellow Cardiffistas Los Campesinos. There’s even a similarity in song naming, with the kick-ass catchy ‘Alright! Okay! You win!’ echoing the latter’s ‘You! Me! Dancing!’. But to write vocalist Michael Bateson-Hill, guitarist Matthew Hitt, bassist Ceri Jones and drummer Jordan Hayward off as Los C. wannabes would be drenched in wrong – tunes like ‘Damn These Circumstances’, ‘Be Glad You’re Neurotic’, ‘Hail Joe Hale’ and ‘Ithaca’ are more than capable of standing on their own two feet.

It’s always a good sign when you have that ‘I wish they’d played one more’ feeling, and it was present in spades at the Old Blue Last. They must be putting something in the water in Cardiff these days

As cramped as the Buffalo Bar is, as dingy and, its downright grotty littered walls with stickers and beer soaked plaster falling to the floor- you can’t help but think it’s architecture has been meticulously devised to house bands like The Ettes. And they pack a devastating punch. The Ettes show is exactly what my system needed to get over a tedious day!

As the ArtRocker night proceeded, another bland all girl electro band plays and pass, never stepping out of the boundaries to make any lasting impression, in fact their name cannot even be dissected from my memory. But this is all about Los Angeles trio The Ettes tonight, and their steely licks and brash punk bravado, not a nondescript wailing all girl band.

The Ettes Lindsay ‘Coco’ Hames streams sublimely tort vocals that would have befitted CBGB’s way back when the streets of NYC were paved with drunks, clothes-horsed-model-artsy types but more importantly a bunch of potent musicians that influenced many musician that ply their trade now. Everything about The Ettes seems to fit this artistic mould.

There’s a distinct whiff of feminism tonight, that not only stops at Coco and drummer Maria ‘Poni’ Silver but Jeremy ‘Jem’ Cohen (the only man in the band) seemingly camps up the stage, although maybe not wholly intentionally. But, his strong bass lines are studiously carried out all night, so we can maybe forgive him.

Their set paddles through the infectious ’You Can’t Do That To Me’ and ’I Get Mine’ evokes memories of classic 60s rock buffered by Coco’s sassy and soulful howls. ’No Home’ has Jem’s hugging fuzzed-up basslines yet again proving potent fixture in The Ettes sound. And ’I Ain’t You’s once again is all about Coco’s sublime vocal input.

And overall The Ettes are as arty as a Shoreditch twat with thick rimmed glasses who has 20/20 vision, they’re slick garage punk purveyors and we love them. Its just not sure that they would be as effective outside the dingy indie bars they currently frequent at this time. As they rock venues like the Buffalo with consummate ease and style!

The dungeon, otherwise known as the Ginglik or its previous incarnation as Shepherds Bush public toilets, was last Tuesday teeming with oestrogen, tattoos and cocktail dresses for the first leg of the Lipstick & Guitar Tour featuring Nell Bryden, Lana, Gabby Young and Kat Flint.

The slapdash venue was strangely enticing with Christmas lights twinkling under a billowing ceiling of red silk, a mob of guitar cases stacked in the corner and the classic disco searchlights that blighted most of our salad-day snogs. However, the sound system was expertly pitched for these four wildly different artistes.

Kat Flint, the poetical Scottish folk singer and her ‘stolen’ band were sent on as the fluffers. Flint shyly prattled between songs but was only confident when she plucked her guitar and sang like the love child of Judy Collins and Damien Rice. Although the stage was generously sized, Flint’s band squeezed into the tightest semi-circle they could muster while her cellist sat incognito behind her.

Flint’s vocal control was flawless while her tank-topped and bearded percussionist and pianist provided Beach Boy castrato harmonies. The pace remained pensively measured but mercifully picked up during the toe-tapper ‘Lazybones’. Flint’s most powerful song of the evening was a solo performance of ’Your Heart And Mine’ while her backing band looked mournfully at the floor.

Gabby Young was a different metaphorical kettle of fish with bright red hair and a décolletage of pearls that provided their own percussive appeal. Her Amish-attired band sat in a circle, as if prepared for a rehearsed reading, while Young effortlessly spiralled the scales with her classical-trained vox, satirical lyrics and rambunctious backing surround of trombone, trumpet and banjo. Young blends Brighton kitsch with Cossack gusto. Where her quirky style belongs is anybody’s guess but it certainly deserves a headline slot in the Spiegel tent with a floor full of audience members linking arms and spinning like whirling dervishes.

The third act of the evening was Lana, a chimera of Amy Winehouse and a Council Estate with a big fuck-off white electric guitar, fearless comic ability and a spangly mini dress from a circa 1984 wedding. Her lyrics were jaw-droppingly simple from ‘liar liar telling lies, lies, lies’ to (and would you believe it) ‘Don’t Call Me Baby’. But in spite of her austere lyrics, bribing the audience with free CDs to incite them to dance and the most cardinal of all, audience participation, Lana’s mix of Latino rock and blues and full-frontal boldness placed her in a different league altogether.

Finally New Yorker Nell Bryden took up the stage with a cool-cat Hammond organist for company, a drummer who bore an uncanny resemblance to Javier Bardem in ‘No Country For Old Men’ and a double bassist who appeared to be humping his elephantine instrument throughout. Straight from the Percy Sledge school of Country Soul, Bryden unequivocally proved just how effortless and polished live performance could be.

Every member of Bryden’s band was unashamedly and genuinely invested in the music he or she was producing. Even Bryden’s rock-chick hair-swishing, hip-swinging and shoulder-shrugging dance routine seemed fitting and unpretentious as she breezed through the tracks of her new album.

With thrilling blasts of tempo, Bryden’s vocal fluency and ability to glide through the scales and the genres from western-swing in the opener ‘Tonight’, to gospel-country in ‘Helen’s Requiem’ to honky tonk in the finale ‘Late Night Call‘, I had to resign myself to being hopelessly impressed.

The band order for the night was entirely befitting and in accordance with the evolutionary trajectory of man, whereby each successive band produced a bigger sound, bigger instruments and a bigger personality than the last.

Despite the makeshift construction of the stage, the smattering of fold-away chairs and decor that was more akin to my own attempts to throw a house party, I couldn’t help but feel charmed by this underground grotto.

The girl at the door explained to me that the martial arts-obsessed owner named the venue Ginglik after the kung-fu term which means ‘an unstoppable force’. Given the calibre of the song-writing and performances delivered by Flint, Young, Lana and Bryden and their refreshingly dissimilar styles, I can only conclude that this venue was aptly baptised.