Touriste must feel pretty conspicuous on this bill. Ironically, it's their invisibility that makes them stick out like a sore thumb - opening for two bands who sample every colour in the spectrum of musical peculiarity, their plodding conservatism leaves them overshadowed. They're not burdened with originality, and sound predominantly like a world-weary JJ72 or a heavy-handed Coldplay, heaving with the same tremulous melodrama. Inauspicious signs, but with a little more confidence in the value of their own identity, they could prove themselves worth a second look.

Fifteen minutes later, circus organs tumble over a garish palette of clashing guitars and fairground chimes. It's a kaleidoscopic nightmare. Your correspondent is amused and slightly frightened. Queen's first single is covered. Enormous intros are indulged and stretched beyond belief. Hellish chords are smashed unceremoniously across each other. Your intrepid correspondent's face hurts. On one level Silvery's perversity is admirable. On another, your usually stolid correspondent is considering taking refuge in another venue. Perhaps Charles Manson's doting parents filled his nursery with such music.

None of this, however, could have prepared one for the spectacle of the tremendously named Best Fwends. DiS was reluctantly led to expect twee boys with drum machines. In fact our dynamic duo resemble a pair of American voluntary summer camp workers, resplendent in matching stripes and baseball caps. They fearlessly map the murky and uncharted waters between the triple locales of the Beastie Boys, New Kids On The Block and, most prominently and most disturbingly, the Jamster Ringtone Club. The stage remains empty for the duration of their brief spot, as our heros bound around the floor, bibbling incoherently over an eighties boombox concoction. It's gormless, pointless and priceless. Heckling ensues. Laugh if you will, dear readers, but be prepared! Some of you will encounter Best Fwends supporting iForward, Russia!. Consider yourselves forewarned...