Strange night, this. Rarely does one find oneself filled simultaneously with life-affirming exhilaration and extreme self-loathing. The unholy hype surrounding Lykke Li means the crowd is full of braying, cocaine-twitchy industry louts desperate to sign her. And the lass is good – but nowhere near as daring, vulnerable and five-years-down-the-line unforgettable as her bill-mates.

If Fanfarlo don’t make you feel as though your heart is being delicately prised from your chest by the fair hand of your first love with a golden scalpel, well, you’ve probably not got a heart at all. Tonight, more than a few songs in 6/8, on top of lively violin and trumpet, have a twinge of Beirut about them, though Simon’s voice is purer and more alive; it melts with youthful innocence. They’ve another London show soon, for a single release – go.

The aforementioned Lykke is a crowd-pleaser of the most sophisticated kind. Her backing band is super-tight, the production slick, vocals rich as cream, faintly generic funk clean as a whistle. Though it feels almost American Idol in its ruthlessness, it’s never less than totally enjoyable. Lykke loops soprano refrains over husky, chanted lyrics, displaying an incredible vocal range. Then, in a moment of brilliant absurdity, she breaks out a kazoo. Give her the rosette already!

By the time The Mae Shi come on, it’s late and half the crowd has melted away. More’s the shame because the Los Angelenos are awesome, energetic and intent on making a lot of noise. Opening, loudly, with ‘I Get Almost Everything’, not a voice fails to join in, not a face fails to lift in almost religious thrall, but the audience is already fading. ‘Lamb and the Lion’ is, if it’s even possible, more concentrated and speeded-up than on the album. By the time jumpy guitars and high, sustained harmonies bottom out into terse, pounding a cappella choruses of “Loss is everywhere!”, we should be bouncing off walls; there should be fractured collarbones and pooled blood in the corners. But we’re drained, just standing and clapping.

It’s impossible not to be awed by the urgency of their performance. Despite the wacky WoW bleeps and hair-metal power chords, their vision is pure and mighty. We’re the ones who can’t fulfil our side of the bargain. When they step off stage – not a whisper of an encore – the crowd slides quietly out, like a nest of snakes whose charmers have laid down their pipes.

Photo by Hannah Jeffery