Dave looks solemnly at the ground as the train goes past Finchley Road. A group of shrieking girls and guffawing boys, walk off the Metropolitan train. Dressed in what Dave refers to as “towny clothes,” the girls lurch onto the platform. Supporting each other by linking arms, trying to walk soberly in their stilettos. The boys in Ben Sherman shirts, untucked over their beige trousers, walk egotistically in front of them. Dave’s brother breathes a sigh of relief: “Only one more stop Dave, should be there by quarter past nine.”

   From the chilly evening air some passers-by walk into The Garage, in Islington, central London. On the stairs, people line up, complaining about the queue. “Hi! Uhmm, my friend is in one of the bands playing here tonight, Mountain Men Anonymous? He said that he was going to put us on the guest list? Oh. Ok.... How much? Fifteen pounds for the three of us.” Five pounds notes are handed around and the bouncer nods towards the door. “Thanks.”

   A darkened room, full of people. Most smoking and drinking. Except one noticeable tall slim woman with jet black hair cut into the nape of her neck in a severe bob. Bright red lipstick. Pale skin. Black, flat, pointed sling backs. Cropped trousers. Tight black top. She stands holding her brown antiqued leather bag, waiting for her friend to bring her the bottle of mineral water she wanted.

   Others stand in small groups, with cigarettes hovering in the air, in animated conversation over the sound of music from the speakers around the room. Beer in plastic pint glasses.

   “John! Hey mate, how ya doin’?” A sixteen year old with short spiky brown hair, and piercings through his eyebrow and bottom lip, emerges from the crowd. “Alright Dave. Sorry I couldn’t put you on the guest list. We could only reserve two and one had to be for the producer....... Yeah I’m ok....... We are playin’ last after the Warm Jets, at ten thirty.”

   BOMM! In the back room, John throws his friend’s demo tape onto the snare drum and hands out tins of room temperature beer. Like many aspiring bands out there, Dave support's his friends from the forest who have their foot in the door. Hoping that once they're established, his own band could have their own shot of making it into the music scene, by being the support band.

   WHEEEEIIIIIRRCK! Bomm bomm! ONE! TWO! THREE! Music blares and like sheep, everyone turns to face the playing band. At the back towards the bar, a couple of men face their bodies to the stage, continuing their conversation across shoulders. Talking louder and gesticulating wildly, one appears to be swimming underwater whilst holding his breath. Phhhoooorsh! A cloud of milky white smoke curls and dances upwards under the tiny spot light in the ceiling. Drowning in the crowd, he disappears. More people queuing outside have entered the matchbox room.

   “They’re the Warm Jets,” John says as he nods towards the stage. “They haven’t been around for two years, but have decided to make a come back. When we were settin’ up, they took ages to do a sound check. Just cos they’re playin’ before us they think they’re better. I said to the bassist "we are playin’ after you so we’ll have to change all the equipment around anyway, before tuning up and playin’ our set and it doesn’t takes us this long.” Yeah, the lead singer use to be the one out of Whitetown, he’s all right, but that bassist is a nob.”

   “Whitetown?! I thought he was Indian and made the song in his bedroom with a computer?” John looks at his friend, puzzled by his comment. “Dunno. Maybe it was all PR crap to create mystique or somethin’. They haven’t released a record for ages, and their new stuff sounds like a rip off of Travis.” Dave’s brother nods: “Yeah they sound like Ash’s dads.”

   Jumping through the crowd Dave returns with a silly smile and put-on nasal voice: “Hay! Guise! D’ you remember that bloke off the tele who plaise Dennis Pennis?” Jumping back through the crowd he leads his friends towards the bar. Brown floppy hair. Pale white, brushed-cotton skin. Big, padded, khaki-green army jacket. Ditto-coloured shirt, tied around the waist. Scuffed, black, lace-up boots.

   Focusing, it takes a while to register who in the crowd to look at. No big black plastic glasses. No spiky hair. No mike, camera crew or celebs being asked obnoxious questions. “There he is, talking to that girl with black hair and the brown bag.... See him? Yeah, that’s him there.” says Dave’s brother. Small squinty eyes. Appears to be medium build. “Are you sure that is him? Thought he was real skinny?” He pauses, staring at the man in question, that his friend has pointed out to him.

   Moving stripes of red, purple, black, yellow and orange. The smell of pepper permeates the air. People in the crowd, clear a small space, but continue listening, drinking, talking or smoking. A woman with dreaded hair is bouncing up and down on her black canvas trainers to the beat of the drum. Waving her roll-up in the air, the smell is strange... Herby. Saying nothing, she just smiles, jumping forwards and back, like she’s bouncing on a pogo-stick.

   “Here’s your water. How have you been? Are these the Warm Jets? They sound all right don’t they?” The television star, Paul Kaye, makes friendly conversation with the people around him, dances a little bit, drinking his pint. “Yeah I am starring in a new show actually Perfect World... Yeah mate, fine.” A short brunette approaches him and they walk back towards the bar.

   Two boys with shirts and ties move into the front of the stage. The Warm Jets have removed their equipment and At The Drive In filters through the speakers. Pink and yellow lights glow on the stage and the red velvet curtain behind, sets up a Lynchian cinematic atmosphere, as the members of Mountain Men Anonymous collect their instruments from the back room.

   The boy in the blue shirt and yellow tie squats next to his friend as the band start playing. Walking around the stage during the set he moves closer as the lead guitarist sits in his chair rocking back and forth, swinging his knees awkwardly and stamping his foot. Noticing the bassist with pillar box red hair, he quickly slides across to the left of the stage, to get a better view of him stomping his beetle crusher boots.

   John starts drumming hard and fast, his arms moving so fast he could take off. The other guitarist sits swaying sideways. Something’s wrong and she starts to press all the buttons on her effects pedal by her feet. The two boys have stopped filming and stand by the pillar at the side to watch. The band's music hits a crescendo.

   Red haired and red faced the bassist gets annoyed and takes out the plugs, banging the guitar on the ground. John hits it with his drumstick. A melodious sound of chaos tsunamis the crowd, as the guitars feedback a high metallic scream through the speakers. The bassist leaves. A splinter of wood shoots off from the drum. John gets mad, standing up and throwing the drums over, the two guitarists appear to give up and leave.

   The solemn sound of feedback emanates from the speakers. John kicks the instruments around a bit, twiddles some knobs then walks off. The bassist returns, realising everyone else has gone kicks his bass over and leaves. The crowd watch, waiting. The girl comes back and turns all the switches off. The crowd clap and whistle approvingly as they realise it was all part of their performance. Embarrassed she skips off the stage and runs, cowering, to the back room.

   “John was taking his hurt out when he went mad at those drums. Did you see that bit of his drumstick which broke off? He’s just broken up with his girlfriend” says Dave.

   It’s eleven thirty, time to catch the last train home. Dave waves goodbye to his friends, who are at the bar getting themselves a drink and chatting to an NME journalist. On the train home they discuss the bands, reviewing their set. “We play more original music than Mountain Men. They were good though, strange that they don’t have a singer. Might be hard for them to catch on. Hope he gives that producer our tape...”

The rock and roll dream fades as they leave their signed fellow musicians behind them. Thoughts of travelling home to burning cattle and college soon take over, but thisdumbdesire's next gig in Cheltenham is centre stage, and their appearance in the local paper offers a touch of media exposure.