I am home, in a room with propped up canvases, shelves full of old records, a Shaun the Sheep hot water bottle and a very large sunhat that acts like a sail. There is also a suspiciously large amount of loft insulation that is always speedily removed on my return. There is not much to do here – the house is surrounded by tall trees, a fast flat road outside, and a pothole-filled lane leading up to a big lake opposite.

My GPS is at a loss as to what to tell me. I could be in the bermuda triangle for all it knows. And whilst I hated that when I was a teenager, cut off from the outside world a little, it’s wonderful to come back to now – for a couple of days at least. My old room is cream with warm glowing bulbs, thick home-made curtains that let no light in, and it’s all very soft. It’s kind of how heaven’s always pictured but with more texture and a wicker laundry basket in the corner. Heaven probably doesn’t have one of those.

It is nice to have a garden too., with trees. We do not have trees in my current garden. It is full of memories of being driven around in a wheelbarrow and a sun spinner I bought during university from a Brighton kite shop.

I grew up to the sounds of Heart FM and although my Mother gets excited when she hears the Beatles, my parents play faintly poor music (save for some Eric Clapton, and a Bob Marley album I once pushed on them). That’s the privilege of the young though – we’re allowed to think our music taste is substantially better.

The CD here collection revolves around Tina Turner (who should stop wearing leotards now), Capital Gold and Phil Collins, who is an easy target for insult. Having said that, every time since leaving home a Phil Collins song has appeared on the radio or in a film I’ve been overwhelmed with a sense of nostalgia and being ten years old again.

Watching American Psycho yesterday I was overcome with delight and felt the need to jab urgently at the screen, eagerly informing everyone that I used to dance around the living room to No Jacket Required (the album with the startling face of Phil Collins looming out of it) long before I discovered what rhythm was. It’s worth looking up the original video for this – Mr Collins demonstrates some incredibly shoddy acting skills. Even I might outrank him in that department.

I used to sneak Paul Simon’s Rhythm of the Saints album on and listen to the first track because I loved the drums and I’ve been listening to it at work, wondering quite how I feel about Mr Simon. I think I might very much like him.

This used to play all the time on the radio and played in a bar last week, at which point every male in the room (bar one or two) proceeded to do their best Dad dancing. My Mother hated it because it sounded too much like rap. I spent my time wondering why they were singing about rain coats. It’s only now I’ve realised they aren’t. Wonderful and terrible songs that have somehow worked themselves into a deep and darkly loved repertoire.

I’ve heard about the Toro Y Moi, or Chazwick Bundick, gig as part of the awkwardly-titled genre of ‘Chillwave’. Still, despite the name, from what Alexis Petridis says about chillwave in a podcast I can’t stop recommdending, Bundick represents the good end of it, and it’s come as a Resident recommendation, which gives me faith. He plays at the Hope in Brighton, a dimly lit sort of root that replaces the original venue of the Freebutt, Brighton’s alternative-led music house.

We arrive for the support, The Enormous Shadow, made up of two chaps taking part in the prominent theme of the evening: doc martins with skinny trousers rolled up. One is eager, wearing doc martins and rolled-up skinny trousers, tapping synthetic noises from a keyboard arrangement, whilst the bassist almost hides on stage, immobile whilst doing some key strumming here and there. He moves twice and we spot him like a zebra in the grass, surprised. Despite this, they’re nice. They play jolly synthetic cloud-like tunes, each fairly similar to its predecessor and very little difference between the overall acts. Excitedly twee enthusiasm shines through and it’s all rather lovely to wobble about to.

The Enormous Shadow

Toro Y Moi

Everyone looks happy, but in true British style we’re all mysteriously standing 15 feet away from the stage. No one has any idea why we’re here, but it began this way and stays this way.

We leapt forward excitedly for Toro Y Moi, the main reason for coming. Described as “more producer than songwriter” by Pitchfork, compared to the similar almost indistinguishable chillwave bands creating ‘summer tunes (despite the genre being little to do with beaches and being released all year round), his songs are more layered. He’s less immediately catchy, but he’s distinctively crafted compared to the likes of Memory Tapes or musical relation Washed Out , groaning at the phrase, he’s a grower.

The tunes are hazy and infectious, and somewhat similar – all tunes from the ‘Causes of This’ EP released in January. For a change, Bundick is playing with support and veteran Toro giggers tell us it’s infinitely better. The bassist is delightfully groovy and the drummer holds it all together with skilled aplomb. The room is made of heat and everyone sweat profusely. He creates wonderfully jiggly tunes and despite the fact T-shirts start going see-through and the gig is wonderful.

Toro y moi

Johnny Flynn and the Sussex Wit are introduced to us as the next folk sensation, so we plod along to Brighton’s Komedia which sees an excited crowd from far-a-field gushing to see him. Some have brought parents.

The focus is hardly on ‘the wit’ though. Watching, you can see why the audience is mostly female, and listening I can hear why they’ve done well. He’s got a teenage heart-throb haircut which doesn’t immediately tell of his grounding; actor, poet, songwriter, and theatre trouper (citing W.B. Yeats and Shakespeare among influences). His look swings between waistcoated artisan, paint smeared jumpers and as tonight brings, and more often to plain checkered shirts when not on a photo-shoot. But when he sings it’s out of the ordinary and barely fits his age.

When he plays it’s incredibly polished, coming across very much as a performance; speaking briefly to the audience and simply getting on and playing to the crowd. The cellist and Johhny hijack the show and whilst they’re all good, the rest of the band disappears into the orifices of our memory. I could vaguely tell you about the keyboardist’s haircut (mop like) and some languishing strokes from the drumer but I could tell you for longer about the cellist. Shining under stage lights by the all-too-loud speaker, he’s playing with thin strings of horsehair broken and floating about under the bow as it slides about. They steal the show together.

Towards the end Flynn’s enthusiasm ventures out from behind the polish. The second that sells him to me is when he falters and a bit of musician focus streams out. A couple of drunk fans bellow “Oh, Johnny!” and he smirks as he changes from guitar to banjo, and tunes it. Everyone stands politely, and he strums a couple of notes.

Stops, retunes. Looks out, unabashed – strums and stops. The crowd shuffles and they launch into song, playing upbeat notes. They stop seconds later. I grin my face off and squeak my enthusiasm to Elliott, whilst a couple of the crowd look vastly unimpressed. He ignores them and concentrates on tuning. He starts up again, and their enthusiasm’s dwindled, but three tunings and a focus on getting the sound right have made me watch a little closer. What follows is the best song, and is like a couple of their tunes is incredibly catchy.

He is good, and touted as “the next poster boy of the nu-folk scene” by the Times. However, whilst this might seem a frivolous complaint I leave feeling that some of the songs are almost too wholesome, and too easily slide by.

My parting thought is with the support.

My favourite band of the night comes in the form of Dry the River; a awkwardly delightful forerunner. The singer is a chap in a grey tshirt and skinny trousers who rotates about the stage in a silly arm-flailing and angular sort of way. They’re incredibly tight as a band, they’ve got a mandolin, and they’re really fucking fun. It’s upbeat, tuneful, clappy chanty sort of stuff and makes you smile outright. They make me feel at home, included in their well-formed music and jolly as hell.

I recommend you investigate them.

Johnny Flynn – Been Listening by cooperativemusic1
Of them all, I recommend Barnacled Warship

It made me realise how many folk and indie gigs I go to though, where everyone’s polite and it’s not all about ME ME ME. Maybe I’m bias. But I got annoyed at a pushy girl’s mass of hair in my face and a sweaty guy rubbing all over my arm. That made me feel old.

Half the audience were kids and half were middle-aged people with double necks. It made me smile. Especially when the obscure tunes (read: not on the best of album) came on and the kids went quiet whilst doublenecks got dancing. I can’t talk though as could be heard loudly asking “How long’s a chick been in the Pixies?” I got laughed at.

They played Where is My Mind? as a good first encore song. It was all ace though. The video’s in HD but you have to press the magic HD button. This is them waving: wave wave wave.

Despite Darwin Deez (aka Darwin Smith)’s New York twang appearing throughout his songs, I’m still surprised when it comes out of his mouth.

“Are you nervous?” I ask as he sidles about the crowd in typical vest, jeans, and bearably silly string-headband attachment.

“I was before, but not now” he admits, sloping off for a cupcake.

Soon to be playing as part of the NME Radar Tour, he’s playing at the sold out Black Heart in Camden organised by The Allotment, a small group of people I have more time for than the NME who work by the simple ethic of ‘we promote what we like’. It’s a gorgeous little venue; a box room where my hand’s greeted with a red pen smiley face drawn onto it. Naked orange filaments shine down and the squat stage is adorned with Orange amps, foam flowers and bendy rubber tube lights snaking about. The white-brick wall has 40s style up-turned lamps and balloons bundled about, and “Darwin Deez” in hand-made tissue paper letters plastered over it to the left of the stage. The whole thing reeks beautifully of home-craft and love.

We loiter and eat cupcakes.

The support, Extradition Order, starts and finishes; the singer belting into the mic with a habit of anxiously tearing his hair out as he sings, and the drummer pouting in the background.

Darwin Deez dive into ‘Hot Nights’ and ‘Up in the Clouds’, tunes pulled from outside their debut album. Three tracks later and the crowd is thick and stocky until the back wall. Jumpy, noisy notes blare out, crammed into the small space. They are long, pleasing five minute deals which keep and demand attention.

“I want to get drunk. On beer! Hah!” he says into the mic, laughing at the seemingly impossible task.

My research on Darwin Deez has extended to repeated watching of Radar Detector and a short listen to a couple of other tracks. Until I am saving face in a conversation, it does not strike me that they are in fact, a band. He’s joined by sister Michelle, without a string headband but with a penchant for diving into guitar beats with almost grungy grooving, and second guitarist Cole with a red and white striped top, rocking a faded denim jacket, backwards baseball hat and jeans rolled up around his ankles, teal socks pooling. The drummer beats zebra-striped drums. It’s a little bit indie alright.

The gig is infectious, fantastic fun and gets the first three rows dancing, unashamedly breaking the indie past-time of toe-tapping.

“I can’t see,” complains the fourth row, and when Darwin launches into the middle of the crowd with his madcap dancing they look shocked, and happily terrified. There’s a shriek and a pileup as they throw themselves at the floor before launching back into happy, greedy notes of Radar Detector.

The lights point down at the Allotment sign hanging over the drummer, leaving Darwin mostly in the dark. The crowd keep him lit with hectic, repetitive white camera flashes. The guitarists bop in and out of the light. They pull out great renditions of Deep Sea Divers, though throughout the gig no song sags.

They hit hidden pop hearts as Beyonce’s Single Ladies streams out for choreographed dancing which all four launch into with smiles. Hands waves and arms wield in silly choreographed routines similar to what, with a bit of effort, I could have hoped to make part of a Spice Girls routine aged 9.

“Thank you for the cake!” he shouts before heading off to return for an encore.

It’s playful, confidently happy lo-fi pop, it’s got people dancing and it’s entirely lovable.  We filter out pleased, keen to play Darwin Deez at loud volumes with smiles on our faces.

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