Camden Crawl, London 20 Apr 2006

Take two great innovations of hedonism - the centuries old pub-crawl and the more recent music festival - put them together and you get the Camden Crawl. Now in its 11th year, the Crawl uses the London borough's pre-existing music venues and bars as makeshift festival arenas to play host to over 50 bands, with one £20 wristband allowing all areas access.

Most music festivals involve going to the countryside, sleeping in tents and suffering the vagaries of the English summertime. The Camden Crawl forgoes all these negatives in favour of doing it all in one night, indoors and a mere 15 minute bus ride from home (well, my home anyway). Okay so you don't get the likes of Sir Paul Macartney and Muse for your money, but at a sixth of the cost of a Glastonbury or Reading you can catch some of the finest new bands around playing intimate venues with suitable sound systems instead of massive sound absorbing tents. Puffy, hamster-cheeked Macca and tens of thousands of people going "nananananananana" or hungry, sallow-cheeked young bands and sweat dripping from grimey ceiling? I know where I'd rather be.

First port of call was The Purple Turtle at one end of Camden, where The Aliens were doing their best to resurrect the shambolic style of the much-mourned The Beta Band, comprised as they are of three former members including the enigmatic, Gordon Anderson, who contributed to the band's masterful Three EPs before mental illness forced him to quit. Anderson is certainly the lynchpin of this new group and spends much of a brilliantly messy set forcing his band mate's to second guess his every whim. He physically stops the guitarist playing when he wants a quiet moment to sing, he regularly glowers at them and occasionally forgets his own parts. In between there is some gloriously chaotic songs like the funky, sci-fi frippery of Robot Man and the lovely Only Waiting delivered by Anderson in a variety of impressive voices. The band continue the same improvised psychedelic rock and funk that The Beta Band were so good at, but with an extra rock'n'roll thrust. All in all suggesting The Aliens and Anderson's return just might be the answer to the riddle of why The Beta Band never recaptured the form of those initial releases.

A look at my programme (the inlay card of a double CD given away free to ticket holders) told me a long walk to the other side of Camden was required to see The Maccabees, so to break up the journey I stopped off at Koko where The Mitchell Brothers were recounting tales of drunkness, police checks and heartache in their chatty rap style and matching jumpers. The subsequent long walk to Lock 17 was definitely worthwhile as The Maccabees provided a wonderful example of the joy and devotion rock can inspire. At the front of the stage, pogoing emphatically and singing along to every word of their excellent jerky, new wave guitar pop was a large bunch of fanatical (and probably drunk) boys. The opening chords of their superb single Latchmere caused a stage invasion, unplanned backing vocals and an impromptu photo session. The band continued unperturbed and the sheer power of music revealed itself in the joy etched on these fans' faces. Of course all this was nostalgically observed from the back by this cynical old hack, but purely for reasons of a fast escape as there's still plenty to see.

On the way down to attempt to catch latest hot young things, Glasgow's The Fratellis, a diversion took me to the cheap and charming record shop Fopp's new Camden branch where Example was encouraging the theft of DVDs, much to the security guard's annoyance. Self-described as a purveyour of West London's sickest hip-hop, Example is a very funny MC with a decent style, good rhymes and some nice tunes. He can definitely be considered a son of Skinner, so it was hardly a surprise to see The Streets' main man striding through the shop after the set finished. No doubt on his way to see his mate Plan B back at Lock 17. But I had other plans though efforts to see The Fratellis were foiled by a huge queue outside the venue. One of the drawbacks of the Camden Crawl is that all the venues have capacity restrictions and a place like the NW1 bar isn't able to cope with the hordes hoping to catch the Scot hot shots. You can spend a lot of time in queues waiting to see your favourite band, or you can just forget about that and go see someone you've never heard of.

Which is why I'm back at Koko watching a man playing an old typewriter during a percussion interlude of an interminable song that seemed to touch on everything from Elton John, Spiritualized, Keane and Queen. This is The Guillemots - a highly rated bunch of fops who are so ponderous and pompous as to make me wish I had stayed in the queue for The Fratellis. Still there was plenty of time for that as we were getting close to the main slot of the synchronised timetable, which saw a brilliant selection of acts unfortunately go head to head. The choice included the aforementioned Plan B, ace noise merchants ¡Forward, Russia!, heavy rock revivalists Wolf Mother, witty rapper Akira the Don, or organ-wielding pop outfit Absentee.

In the end the allure of pretty ladies doing Doo-Wop proves too much and I'm waiting outside G Lounge to see The Pipettes. Early queuing proved a good idea as the place is tiny and heaving. In fact there's barely room for the band onstage, never mind the trio of singers with coordinated dance moves. The Pipettes hail from Brighton and play the kind of breezy pop music typical of the seaside town. The twist is their modern take on The Supremes telling mildly lewd tales of boys, sex and love in triple harmonies, featuring the very welcome return of the lyrics "shoop shoop shoop". As a live act The Pipettes are engaging, endearing and a whole pile of fun even if the venue is so mobbed it's impossible for anyone in the audience to dance along. But they are not just a gimmick act who will entertain you live for an hour. All three girls are excellent singers and musicians and their backing band are so tight, I reckon the girls might have copied Ike Turner's idea of fining musicians for mistakes. They also have some great songs like Dirty Minds and their brilliantly catchy recent single Your Kisses Are Wasted On Me, and even the average numbers are only two minutes long so no harm done.

Not one person leaves the venue without a smile on their face and it's either homeward and hardcore from here on. Attempts at the latter could see you take in Carl Barat's new band Dirty Pretty Things at Lock 17, Supergrass at the tiny Dublin Castle or special guests The Futureheads at Koko. Venue size makes me opt for the latter but the queue is massive and unmoving. Nevermind, hop on the bus and back home for a cuppa and bed. Now that's a festival.

words: Colm Larkin

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