So, like, I'm outside the Brixton academy on a slightly chilly Friday, and I notice a sign scrawled in marker pen saying 'Dandy Warhols. 8:30. No Support'.

NO SUPPORT. Who do they think they are? I mean, there has to be a support band, cos like, shyeah, that's the rules. But there again why the hell would you want to spend a dull 45 minutes staring at some god awful band that can't play for toffee?

So anyways, I go to the stage door and wait in line to get my tickets. Nick Rhodes (with an Andy Warhol hair-style, which I'm guessing may have been artistic irony) wanders through the stage door and into that special area that important people go to. I wither slightly and have a vague memory of dancing around the living room to 'Top of the Pops': "her name is Rio and she dances on the sand".
*At this point, Stacey may reveal she's older than she makes out*

Hmm anyways, some fucktard has forgotten to put my name down on the list, which sucks ass cos I had to do some 'stuff' to secure those tickets, but after some heavy talking and a different kinda blow to the big guy's head, I'm in.

And I get there just in time. At 8:30, the band go onstage as promised. They all sidle up to their party weapon of choice and oh my, if being cool as fuck were an aftershave then these people would reek of it. And they haven't even played a note yet.

Launching into the set I feel the floor around me start to move as the audience feel the force and begin to move with the rhythm of trance music for indie kids. I love it. The stage is half lit with images of girls dancing and the matrix equations run down the screens, making me wonder if I'm really here, really hearing this or if I'm part of some elaborate master plan, if so it's a damned excellent one.

Tributes to Kim Deal are played out. Lots of 'Dandys Rule OK' is fed out on star spangled spoons, when, suddenly... hip cat keyboardist and tambourine shaking extraordinaire Zia, is on the verge of peeing her pants. So while we wait Courtney plays us an acoustic solo version of 'Not if You Were the Last Junkie on earth' and I think I may have fallen in love. Mohawks and all. I have a girly hard-on for Courtney Taylor-Taylor (so good they named him twice) and it doesn't desist through the course of the evening.

Zia comes back, empty, and we kick back into all the anthems about wasting, wanking and partying. People are swaying, people are swooning, people are smoking things they shouldn't. The band and audience morph into one with a loud collective 'Whoahoa whoo!!'

Soundscapes of pure beauty and mind damaged velocity echo around the room as everything becomes hazy. The band play for a fantastic, yet sweaty, two hours and fifteen minutes.

It's a rare thing to stand at a gig in London to turn my head around the room and see people dancing and singing like they ain't got a pretentious bug up their butt and are actually enjoying themselves. And that is what is great about this band. I must've seen them about five times, and every time, whether it's on a sun-soaked after noon at a festival, or in some pokey little rock club in the heart of Berkshire; they reek of everything that music should be about, and they somehow make the audience and their fans feel it too. So please Dandy Warhols come back soon.

'Cos I like you, yeah I like you, and I'm feeling so bohemian like you.. Whoahoa whoo!!!'