It’ll be grand now when they link up both those LUAS lines, the walk down to Crawdaddy gets longer every time, and that’s without the dilemma of whether Tara St or Westland Row is closer, and in this heat, well I’ll tell you, I was dripping like undercoat off a poorly painted ceiling by the time I arrived. Friday night though, and three hot bands on the line up, so I wasn’t too bothered, a little hot, but not bothered. Tonight’s menu included Hoovers and Sledgehammers, The Ultra Montanes and headliners Star Belgrade. A veritable feast then, and after picking myself up a copy of The Montane’s latest E.P. for the princely sum of no Euro at the door, I wander in to the rather decadent surrounds of Dublin’s trendiest and most diverse venue, well that’s what they put in the press release for the tourist mags anyhow. To be fair, and it’s only fair to be fair remember, Crawdaddy is a nice place; looks like the kind of place you’d get given out to for touching anything in, but it still has its charms, a large well stocked bar being one of them, except if you’re looking for pineapple juice that is, or a nice cup of tea.

The music was just starting as we were let in, as the first act came on stage there was a still a man from some undisclosed location guarding the entrance with a rather expensive looking velvet rope to aid him. Funny I thought, usually they like to let the crowd build up so the first act doesn’t feel like it’s just him and the barman. The barman himself was enjoying proceedings though so it seemed like no one really minded, and with a grand total of six chairs scattered casually around the floor there wasn’t much chance of a sit down even if you had arrived two hours early.

Hoovers and Sledgehammers then, kicking things off with a punchy acoustic number, all about the 46A and things being animal, homage to Mr. Dempsey or pulling the rug from under him I wasn’t sure, but with the way the rest of this set panned out it didn’t really matter. Earl Mustard, the aforementioned Damomaniac, relinquished his acoustic guitar and retreated behind the drum kit, he was joined by a bizarre looking Igor Honey, sporting a gorgeous wet-weather rig out and wielding a Paul McCartney style bass. Interesting, I thought, and it was. Lyrical highlights included, “Nothing annoys me more than hippy chick with a guitar,”; “A man blows a saxophone in the United States, $100”; “Joyridin, doin’ time in a wheelchair,” and so on with the madness, all accompanied by syncopated beats and pounding bass. At one point things took a turn for the trippy as Igor whipped out a fretless bass and hit it heavy on the fuzz pedal Harry, and all the while some strange kind of Gregorian chant was issuing from behind the kit. Too odd for my blood I think but a brave and edgy show, in fact, I might even have paid to see it, maybe, if it was a euro in.