Credit: Found On Internet

It is pouring down with rain. I’m talking serious, gushing, take-one-step-and-you’re-sodden monsoon-grade rain. People are scurrying for the sparse shelter that an open street offers. But some stand transfixed in the rain, because The People’s Revolutionary Choir are onstage and they are magnificent.

Tin Pan Alley is the kind of institution that makes you proud for a change to be part of the oh-so-tragically-hip crowd (well, we can dream…). While thousands more might have trotted along to Finsbury Park for the anti-racism RI:SE Festival, Music Towers has piled onto Denmark Street – or Tin Pan Alley to give its more colloquial name – to watch another free festival.

Braving the downpour, Music Towers is transfixed by The People’s Revolutionary Choir. If you mashed Spiritualised at their most spaced out with the sheer rock pout of Queens of the Stone Age, and iced it off with Primal Scream when they are their most frosty, TPRC would still be a better live prospect. Go see them now.

They might come from Birmingham, but Sunset Cinema Club sound more like they’ve been airlifted in from somewhere altogether less grey and concrete-cast. Frontman Dom James looks positively delighted to be playing here. ‘Gojira Suit’ is more than energetically enthusiastic enough to keep those soaked by the downpour to stay, and tempt back all those weather-shy indie kids (hey, they’ve got haircuts to protect) out of nearby shops.

Some things, like fine wines, get better with age. Some things, like cheap wines, turn into sour vinegar. Some things, like the anal discharge from diarrhoeic geese, has always been vile and revolting.

Such is Bolt Action 5. Like every bad cliché of London past twelve months of scenesterism squeezed into one insipid quartet (only 6 months behind schedule and even less welcome), their day-glo brand of sequencers and samplers is a hit with the kids in skinny hoodies who like the kind of bands they’re supposed to like. I’d rather buff my balls with razorblade sandpaper than have to endure this again.

The competent but unremarkable electro-guitar-rock (Jeez, is there any other kind of band these days in London?) of We Start Fires is worthy of some toe-tapping, especially current single ‘Magazine’. But it’s shown up for the forgetfully predictable rock that it is, when Help She Can’t Swim take to the stage after them. With the sun finally piercing the clouds, HSCS mix discordant keys with rat-tailed guitars; It’s angular, fanged gutter-indie. If you could somehow wrap a porcupine up in barbed wire and use it as a knuckle-duster in a street brawl, it’d be the madcap songs produced by this London quartet.