Mess. Farringdon was messy at 11pm last Thursday, I can report. The bank holiday seems to have thrown everyone – a doubled-up weekend’s crept on them and it starts here, in the litter and lights that glow round what will be Smithfield Market again in five nights’ time. For now though, a different type of meat market settles on the North side of the square, 24 hours premature, jogging Fabric’s weekly routine and teenage sleep patterns all out of sync.

Through those still sucking on cheap cans outside we stride, to the door and the downstairs like proud lambs to the proverbial. The next time I see the sky it’ll be lighter and my eyes will be darker. Sacrifices, sacrifices. “Simon!” I say. Late of the Pier are on.

They’re young, I suppose. At the moment LotP's output mirrors their adolescence - slight, spry electric guitar struggles for attention over bass that pounds and booms with pigeon-chested bravado. Forthcoming b-side 'Heartbeat, Flicker, Line' shows off this division as well as anything else; genres coming and going as quick as verse turns chorus. What they do have, to go with a decent name and a couple more wedges of decent guttural synth, are ideas and avenues - the upshot of this split-teenage personality is that you feel they could mesh all those genres together and fledge full into something together, one day. Tonight though, we'll just grind our jaws to the Gary Numan-reffing ‘Space and the Woods’ which spins us dizzy like star-gazing through petrol fumes, even if it is very 'done' and lets guilt creep.

We wander off for a while, to let time pass in front of Xerox Teens. It passes in fits and starts, so that I swear my watch and phone are plotting t'ings. No matter. I'll just wait it out on the stairs with all my new friends, and talk about how music in London is "so fucking good at the moment, maaaaan" and how everything's got a bit 'freed-up' after the dusty/neon domination over capital aesthetics this half decade past. Soon, there will emerge a set of worth-whiles with more than half a clue, and then the ‘00s can get its own identity already, and stick and stay there for a bit, the residue from musical moonshine sewer-brewed in suburban bedrooms and dirty underground clubs that haven't even got a name to put on their MySpace page yet.

What’s Xerox Teens’ place in all this? They do things to my head that make me pen paragraphs like the one hanging out to dry above. They put the oil in my engine, the green ink in my biro, the blood in my beetroot. When you hear them starting up it's time to leave the stairs and return to the fields, roll around in the dark red veg and get messy.

They come and show us around the wreck of people and place; a drunken tour guide through a night of riots. The intolerably good split-release 'Onkawara' / 'B54' is dispensed into air thick with sweat and noise. Over the drummer's shoulder a lime green laser feels its way through the smoke and tickles at the walls and ceiling before gathering in a rolling cylinder at the peripheries of my vision. I squint and my lips make a thin, idiot smile. The band tear into ‘Round’, I get mown down. From here on in, the nightclub just blurs.

Xerox Teens were photographed by Heardism