It's hard not to feel berk or beast when attempting to cram 12 months into 700 words, so we won't even try. This late in the day there's going to be omission to an extent that outstretches the impatient collateral of memory loss, especially as the mind wanders back to recall a year of live music that's without peer in my 23 on this earth.
So, there'll be no divvying up of 2008 between movements and moods here. Just a necessary trawl through the shipwreck, flotsam fished from choppy waters and beacon buoys twinkling in the ocean of our terrible collective memory.
HEALTH's pathological precision scares the clouds from the sky as twilight turns over the sea at Primavera.
Hearing the song that Bradford Cox co-wrote with Panda Bear and that samples The Dovers for the first time at Primavera Sound. Immediately being transported to a balmy summer's night on the porch of an old house on a steep, palm-gilded-avenue on the outskirts of an as yet unidentified city somewhere in the southern states of America.
My Bloody Valentine crush hippie chicks at the ICA.
Telepathe's 'Chrome's On It' is played by someone that isn't us.
We witness Abe Vigoda crash into 'Dead City/Waste Wilderness' and Juan's huge grin as they play before a UK audience for the first time.
Our eyes fall into the artwork for Abe Vigoda’s Skeleton LP.
Socks are knocked deftly to the ether by AIDS Wolf at our Great Escape stage, the tired sound man’s face bathed in red light as he stares at the channels of his desk, shakes his head and walks away.
Giving Rustie a post-show fiver to buy breakfast upon morn. Being told a few minutes later that he had given said note to a homeless guy he met on the way home, "for breakfast".
Clinic's manager reveals it'd take more than two grand to persuade him to defecate into a shoe.
El Guincho's 'Kalise' gets the subtlest of second winds (2:38).
No Age cause a stink; play a sweaty Shred Yr Face aftershow at Camden's Bar Vinyl.
The slight but ongoing reclamation of London's live attitude by Messrs Rad and Awesome. Kohl-eye sulks are no fun.
R.I.P. Bo Diddley.
Flowdan's real name is Mark. Not Dan.
A couple fuck at our Wiley show.
Photo: Alex Surgulazde
Bludgeoned into a coma by Harvey Milk's tyrannical blows.
Sound troubles at Mass cause The Bug to get 'Angry'.
We fit 5 ft thick foam walls to mask Kevin Martin’s terminal bass at the Amersham Arms.
Arch M spits 'Cat Grave' into the mics at Café Oto in Dalston.
Primavera Sound's pairing of El Guincho and Holy Fuck provokes a mass outburst of ridiculous joy; souls rushing the stage as brains and logic fled fizzing into the Mediterranean (the latter sadly not visible on tape).
'Devil's Crayon' flinches into view as Wild Beasts lap whoops from London's 100 Club.