Young Turks Night

Hyperbole is a dangerous weapon, especially in the hands of certain rock writers, but tonight is one of those undeniable evenings of mythology that could live on to be a dawning of a new age of Soho-boho, where London has that hopeful feel of the 60s where we could kamikaze at the world from these cobbled streets and takeover.

Tonight's venue, Café De Paris, has a legacy, most notably as one of the only places in London Jeff Buckley played. It's beautiful, a decadent setting suitable for a Parisian royal soiree. It's vaguely apt, then, that a collective calling themselves Young Turks have set-up a night aimed at bringing some of the most vital new music into the heart of London, stealing it back from the sticky floors of Camden's black boxes full of the folded arms of the recording industry. This is the launch night, but it doesn't initially blow the welcome mat away; rather, it threatens to deliver on everyone's worst first-impression fears as Jack Penate's guitar only works for two strums, and then nothing. The boy isn't fazed - he just signed to XL recordings today - and grabs some Gaffer (off lurking fellow modern-London-folkster Kid Harpoon); seconds later we're away into his warm world of summer parties pumping out Prince and Billie Holiday mixed with a distinctly Cockney-splashed romance. Jack is promising, especially when 'Learning Lines' leaps around melodies and breakdowns like some kinda post-hardcore song strummed on an acoustic guitar. He's not quite Jamie T or Lily Allen or Emmy the Great, yet, but he's often found in their company - he's part of a scene that doesn't have nor need a name; it's just a merry-go-round of creative individuals feeding off each other.

Then, Rumble Strips put their best sub-Zutons foot forward, with additonal brass, lurching back to the 50s-rivalist roots of their singer's former outfit, Vincent Vincent & the Villians. Quite simply, I'm really not bothered: this club is full of too many inspired, interesting people asking, "wanna-drink-mate?". It's a room full of the magic London promises from afar: there are girls in summer dresses talking about gigs at the Barbican and guys talking about this electronica remix they heard at some festival in Spain. It's a room that's as worldly as it is wordy, and rather than patiently waiting for a renaissance, its occupants are seemingly painting, writing and singing it 'til it happens... Hang on, is there absinthe in this? There probably should be...

The place is soon rammed-to-the-balcony with the beautiful and the delightfully drunk, each grinning deep into their pink-cheeks. They know something the rest of the world doesn't know (yet) - y'see, there's been a rumbling in the bowels of pop for a while, the need for new savoirs, something clever but fun enough to dance to; now, there are these irritable delinquents that call themselves The Maccabees. The little buggers have taken the romance of rock 'n' roll and stuck it in the heart of big papier-mâché piñata made of only the choice pages from second-hand books about Jagger, the Undertones and Factory Records. The heart pumps, bleeds and grieves for a day when The Futureheads write something of their own as vital as_ 'Hounds of Love'_.

Within three chords the crowd swarms at the stage and the band take half a shocked step back. The pogoing is intense and the front row looks like a Japanese cartoon of waves with layer upon layer of grins. Then 'About Your Dress' kicks in to a shouted symphony of "THAT'S JUST WHAT ALL YOUNG LOVERS DO!". Then come the goosebumps: flash-forward to main stage crowds at next summer's festivals leaping under strobe lights screaming these very same lines. Then the place goes insane for one of the singles of the year, _'Latchmere', and you can't even begin to describe the hit-single-like mess of left 'n' right limbs when the chorus breaks out for 'X-Ray'. The bouncers struggle to keep people from the crush, as if this was a Chili Peppers show or something.