Here's a tip London's A-Z is missing. If you're looking for venue 229, you won't find it next to 228 or even 230 on Great Portland Street. Oh no, turn around, cross over the road and you’ll stumble upon it, cunningly disguised amongst some scaffolding and badly designed street signing.

First up were Red Light Company. Super skinny with lustrous tresses and a Hugh Fernley-Whittingstall lookalike for a drummer, this band was a visual masterpiece. To be honest, I was so caught up staring at the tightly packaged bulges that were hidden behind their guitars; I phased out their grinding, indie rock tedium. Then came an incredibly disturbing foursome who donned masks before hitting the stage. But these weren’t comedy representations of superheroes, or ex-presidents of the USA. Oh no, these were masks featuring their own faces, duplicated in two-dimensional form. The effect was a bit eerie and made me quite nervous of their pseudo Hot Chip sounds. The band that followed was overshadowed by a cocky, Kelly Jones wannabe of a front man who kept climbing into the audience and was too fat for his skinny jeans.

Finally, Frightened Rabbit graced the stage. Every bit the Scottish stereotype, these hairy, boisterous, tequila swigging lads (I still think it might have been apple juice) awoke a weary crowd with thundering songs about fucking and other delicate matters of the heart. Lyrically beautiful, yet delivered with a masculine insouciance, songs such as Modern Leper, and Old Fashioned proved that these lads are going to win their audiences hearts without wanting to make them sick on their laps. The night came to a halt after the venue reached its curfew, and Frightened Rabbit's powerful sounds rolled away back up north.