IdlewildLouisiana, Bristol

We were somewhere around Bristol when the drugs began to wear off. It was early evening and we still had many miles to go, mainly to be spent driving aimlessly around in circles looking for a pub we had no idea how to find. And so begins another chapter in the Waterfront Idlewild diary. Having previously been held back by knackered PA's and inept box office staff (good morning, Newport Centre), we find ourselves hampered by a footballing injury, a lack of pain-killers, and the wrong address for the venue, but there was no going back and no time to rest.

This time however, luck was with us, and the quest that had taken us across new and alien pastures is over. The venue allegedly owned by Salvatore Schillaci's brother is a disaster waiting to happen; 500 people crammed against a stage, surrounded by lights that shake and stagger with every note, and ceiling fans low enough to decapitate the more energetic in the moshpit (at last, a venue with a sensible crowd surfing policy).

There was a terrible roar around us, and venue was full of what sounded like huge bats, albeit fantastically punked up, adrenaline-junkie bats, swooping and screeching and diving around the stage. Live, Idlewild are one of those bands you spend a lifetime searching for - the dynamics of Nirvana melded with the garage sensibilities of Girls Against Boys and the exuberance of Huggy Bear. Roddy Woomble stumbles across the stage, screaming at his microphone as if it has murdered his family, and then come back to stir-fry his cat. Colin and Rod thrash and trash their instruments as all the best performers should, and Bob ... well, as usual, Bob looks drunk and confused as only he knows how. Somewhere, in the midst of the chaotic moshing and pogoing, the voice of an Italian footballing hero was possibly heard screaming: "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamm animals?"

...with apologies to HST