Zoey Van Goey, The Slaughtered Lamb, London

You’ve got to love a Sunday gig; the knowledge you’re laughing at Monday, compromising the working week ahead. A guilty giggle, and one more drink to toast the fact you’ve ummed and ahhed all day about whether you really want to leave the house on a Sunday night, but you did and it’s great and you’ve so made the right decision. One more drink to cloud over those thoughts of the journey home and stop those sneaky Monday fears surfacing. And that’s enough. It’s got to be. A precious few may remember the DIY Bowlie review ending in some frankly embarrassing staring-at-feet, shoe-shuffling and a sheepish admission it’d all been too much. Zoey Van Goey closed the festival and whilst it’s remembered that they definitely charmed and definitely entertained, whilst it’s remembered we roared along to ‘Robot Tyrannosaur’, the rest is an untraceable blur. Not this time though, not tonight. Tonight is crystal clear, sparkling and, oh my days, is it ever divine.

They look and sound nothing like I remember, apart from singer Kim’s striking jet-black bob, but the charm’s still there and more than that, they’re really funny, and not funny like bands are sometimes funny, or even comedians are sometimes funny, but they’re funny like your mates gathered round a table in the pub are funny; self-effacing, slightly bumbling, confident but with a bit of humility. You’ve got to have all that if you want to get away with a song called ‘You Told The Drunks I Knew Karate’ and more than get away with it but make a tale of late night mishaps, mistakes and drunken devotion around the mean streets of Glasgow sound like something we all need to hear.

And, yeah, ok, hand-on-heart some of the music isn’t groundbreaking, but to hell with it, when lyrics are smart, witty and bubbling with hyperactive brains does every song need to break ground? Can it not be just be superlative, gorgeous clatterbang indiepop? God I love superlative gorgeous clatterbang indiepop, especially when it’s raucous, within the right limits, and joyful, without limits. Especially when its played with the bristling verve of a band knowing they’re on the cusp, knowing they’re rising above the also-rans. This crowd are no longer casual observers, they’re all fans, they’re here for the band. Want to gauge that? Good idea, let’s play a jazz number. Let’s take a room jammed with jaded London cynics and split it in half. Let’s ask the separate halves to add some percussion, us on the left take the ‘boom’ of the kick-drum, those on the right take the ‘tish’ of the snare. Will it work? Will it be met with embarrassed half-silence? Boom. Tish. Boom. Tish. The. Whole. Room. Joins. In. A sweet and kinda special moment only heightened when a hidden sound guy produces a trumpet and toots merrily away. And when it’s not clatterbang indiepop or cutesy romantic jazzing we’re treated to convincing, gently creeping, Celtic folksiness. There’s a variety here, a richness of options. There might be something for everyone. We don’t get to roar this time, but tonight will be long remembered.