Back slaps and hand claps: widespread at ICU on the day of those kicks. Last time I was here – or the time before, or the time before that – I found myself in a ‘situation’ with a rugger bugger for inebriatedly proffering the opinion that his sport of choice was, and I quote, “a little bit gay”. Today, no such mistakes, and subsequently no fists to duck; instead, there’s merriment and plastic cups ‘pon lips, cheap booze and barbecue, all in the name of celebration. One hundred up, more to come: congratulations Silver Rocket.

To mark such a significant anniversary, the perennial London indie club’s organisers have arranged a quite excellent all-day bill; DiS – me – doesn’t arrive ‘til a little later on than hoped, but Cove immediately reinforce the hunch that a capital city promoter doesn’t get to where this one is by booking shit flash-in-the-pan acts. The instrumental (primarily; screeches = vocals to some extent, although foggy sound puts pay to identifiable vernacular) trio grind through sludgy compositions that have heads nodding in synchronised approval throughout. They’ve played SR more times than any other act, so their appearance here was always a given; what wasn’t is their lasting impression. They truly light up the stage in a manner few that follow can match, and the bass-heavy noise they unleash is deliciously nasty.

Meet Me In St Louis are looking a little tour-ravaged; rarely ones to pass up an opportunity to bring their Variations On Swing LP into the live environment, the five-piece have been witnessed by these eyes and ears possibly/probably more frequently than any other act this year. Their slightly subdued on-stage dynamics aren’t helped any by some poor sound – a regular failing of this particular venue, its root cause perhaps the oddly oblong shape of the room – which renders lyrics, as with Cove, indiscernible. The crowd – healthy, as befits such an event – is hardly theirs for the taking either; a little too abundant with ideas to enrapture the uninitiated, only long-term admirers get anything out of a patchy set. The perspective from a first-timer: they need to rein in their complexities once in a while for the sake of some accessibility. Perhaps, perhaps.

Brighton-based Charlottefield are one of the day’s biggest draws, their aggravation-tinged alt-punk blessed by contributions from the only drummer in the country that the much-lauded Seb Rochford should be looking up to, if only to praise the man’s superbly out-of-control facial hair. From beneath layers of fuzz, Ashley Marlowe guides the four-piece through a selection of new material sourced from their forthcoming second LP for FatCat, What Are Friends For; his sticks blur around a kit that finds its every inch used in some way, pointing the itchy guitar lines about him the way of climactic bombast. Roared on by a truly partisan crowd, not even shrieks of shock and awe from a neighbouring bar – the kicks, the kicks – can overwhelm the impact of one of the nation’s finest group of wobbly rockers around. That thing they all do with their heads: that.

ZZ Top-loving Nottingham trio Lords are also something of a favourite amongst the Silver Rocket faithful; with their much-noted Beefheart-isms and fondness for immediacy over intricacies, the band plough through a set of party-starting pleasers: how can you not win over any would-be doubters with an opening gambit by the nomenclature of ‘I Want To See You Drunk And Dancing Like A Russian’? Exactly. With an absolute beast of a drummer (Elvis, pictured) on their side – second band in a row where the kit-manning soul takes centre stage, albeit for slightly different reasons – Lords excel here: ‘The Unfortunate Death Of The Lords’ is such a thumbs-aloft winner that nobody can hoot their appreciation, so tight are the smiles plastered across all and sundry crammed in front of the stage. From guitarists’ feet back to DJ booth, there’s barely space to breath let alone applaud – that the three-piece receive the loudest eruption of audience aural high-fives is testament to everyone’s contortionist-level shoulder-to-wrist flexibility.

Joeyfat’s unrealisms tickle the avant-fancies of many a man possessed at some stage or other of their lives by tales of piracy and, well, piracy. Something Naval, anyway: M. Edward Cole – tall, Jarvis skinny, From Another Land – drags his (literal) tail through the crowd, weaving between faces full of knowing admiration and genuine confusion bordering on terror. He shrieks, something about an encounter with a man who would dare to be he; chancer, fraud, faker, everything this man – towering above everyone even when off the stage – is not. Spoken word deliveries get knocked more often than not – can’t sing, don’t bother at all – but Joeyfat’s skewed riffs and intelligent compositional design allows our central protagonist something of a free reign to romp lyrically, playful and splitting with spat-forth imagery. They’re old-timers sharing a bill today with a number of could-bes, but as DiS makes an early exit to catch the final southbound, Joeyfat prove that they’re so enduring for one reason: they fucking rule live.

Apologies to bands not mentioned here: 3hostwomexicansandatinsofspanners, Underground Railroad, Silent Front, Future Corpses, Big Joan, Twinkie. Though you were missed by DiS (sorry!), you each played your part in a most excellent day of celebration.