Everyone knows what London crowds are like. Right? Statues. London band-viewing etiquette goes as follows: assume the position - arms folded, or pint in one hand, other hand in pocket. Stay like that. Do not move or react under any circumstances. Bloody Londoners. I jest, but the snipe is semi-deserved. Enter professional provocateurs Selfish Cunt - here to turn rock and roll into a contact sport, once and for all.

Exhibitionism is nothing new in rock music. Hell, it's the founding principle of it. Elvis thrusting his crotch at swooning girls. Iggy Pop setting himself on fire. David Bowie adopting every guise under the sun. Mick Jagger... being Mick Jagger. And the Sex Pistols offending everyone they could, absolutely because they could. It worked then, and it works now. Selfish Cunt may be a band, but it's a one man show, and the spotlight's on acrobatic tornado Martin Tomlinson. Blacked up and draped in the Stars and Stripes, he arches and flexes, clutches the ground and humps the legs of uneasy bystanders (...they love it really). He steals people's pints and empties them over himself. He's in your face, then he's on the floor.

It's funny. Actually it's fucking hilarious, when you're watching the belligerent fucker push and assault and wrench savage kisses from the assembled boys and girls. As a slomo, bluesy bass note lingers poisonously while Tomlinson does his thing, it's performance art married to rock and roll. Then the crowd parts, and he's stalking towards you with intent, a predatory, murderous glint flashing in his eyes. He's a hair's breadth from you, staring you out, and everyone's watching. Cameras flash in your direction, and you feel a nervy, self-conscious thrill. You stare back, but he's pushing his face into yours, forcing you backwards. It's a battle of wills. It's not so funny anymore.

Tomlinson forces every person in sight to interact, to acknowledge, to react to him. The once-surly hipsters are pushing him, goading him, tussling with him in the flood of spilt beer and discarded clothes. Inhibitions dissolve; exhibition reigns. The Iggy of old crawls naked, usurped and fire-scorched at the back of the stage beneath a mesh of scattergun synthesised beats, while Tomlinson parades about in front wearing his crown, his affected yelps licking the sweat from Patrick Constable's filthy, dripping riffs. Those "controversial", "offensive" lyrics and incensed political direction are lost in the melêe. Selfish Cunt are a pure sensory experience, a deadly, transfiguring vampire bite. To the masses they're a joke. To the fifty or so people here, they're already immortal.

Photo by Sonia Melot