Crawling It: The Camden Crawl 2008

A crumpled melange of beer cans and fag-ends led the path to The World’s End. It’s just before 3pm and I’d rather not get a feel for the atmosphere in the streets just yet; I’d much rather choose The Bad Robots and a warm pint. Here’s the brief: “State your lazy list of influences and mimic them”. They accordingly and incoherently concur, around forty years too late to be revolutionary. ‘Just Shut Up’ is aptly the name of one of their songs. Alas, off I went in search of something more desirable (or at least less derivative), capitulating my pursuit at the back of a yard hanging out with the older, more embarrassed folks waiting for Hadouken!  Something like this, is requested: “If you’re a Hoxton Hero or an Indie Sindy, show your hands (innit)”. Is it etiquette to question the ridiculousness of them trying to pass this off as post-ironic? It’s like an episode of ‘Skins’ without the rhetoric.

Back to the pub for some solace which isn’t nearly met by Coral/Cast/sub-Beach Boys hybrids, The Standards. It’s a catalyst at least; an epiphany where I realise that the Crawl is a double-edged sword where the poor man’s Oasis (er, a squatter that’s been robbed then?) become God’s gift for the day. So defiantly I tell them to shove their guitar bands – especially when Sam Sparro’s only a sandwich pitstop away. This divine event could also be monikered “the nearest you’ll ever get to seeing Prince in Camden” (well, since his KOKO show last year). Holographic leggings, white-rimmed sunglasses, a kaftan, some slick lighting, and a warbled pre-amble to a song about “beating the shit out of your significant other” – affirmative, there’s movement! A shuffle, a head-sway in the line of the strangely familiar. His musings on songs like ‘21st Century Life’ are a tad trite but they’re clothed in gloriously fizzy synth enough to negate them.

Next stop, Tronik Youth - at a sparsely populated Dingwalls. It’s not fair to the poor bloke that the punters are queuing outside much smaller venues; it’s definitely a misplaced scheduling. His loops are caustic and Krautrock-recalling enough but he looks a tad lost in the middle of the stage all on his lonesome. Esser fares better by resembling a forest (on the upper half of his head). He’s got intricate, Jamie T/Hot Chip pop to boot – certainly the most memorable hooks thus far. The audio’s a tad muddied which lets him down, though I’m re-renewed once more.

And the glee continues with its necessary counterpart, the backache, as I brap (yes, it’s a verb now) my way through The Black Cap to see where the grindie schmindie’s coming from - Toddla T, as it turns out. I’m actually here for he tiny blonde elf-like creature also known as Lykke Li, who enters the equally tiny stage accompanied by tribal rhythms in a sea of electro-folk. It’s nothing new, and her knowing eyes veer towards a pedestrian performance. The crowd’s heaving but I’m left cold other than by ‘Little Bit’ which given, is rather pretty.

The sun’s set and I’m sick of the politeness. So it’s all about the audience? Not really. Future Of The Left do the trick nicely, offerings like ‘Manchasm’ the highlights of a breakneck sprint of a performance. The ‘pit’ smashed each other up whilst I got my voyeuristic thrills, standing in the corner watching events unfold. The performance itself was spirited, witty, powerful and restoring. Their twisted words aren’t anywhere near as self-conscious as Mclusky, and their more delicate moments are far more pensive.

And on with the chronology as Friday draws itself to a close against my will. I’ve scheduled in around eight hours of that requisite activity known as sleep and then I’m ready to go again, ears still ringing, mindspace still mostly akimbo. This non-festival ain’t no smorgasbord unless you read outside of the guide and go a-wandering. I’ve realised this halfway through, so it’s about time I get on the adrenalin kick and see as many acts as physically possible.