Leicester Square is barely full – even that’s an exaggeration – when House Of Brothers begins his – for it is just one man, Andy Jackson, on stage – short but sweet set of acoustic loveliness. A smattering of back-of-venue early doors attendees applaud heartily come the conclusion of gently affecting arrangements including ‘Fisty Cuffs’ and ‘Lose Yourself’ from Jackson’s recent demo EP, but the small crowd has a disastrous impact upon all things atmospheric – while a soul’s baring all under bright lights, those loitering in the darkness and by the bar are too few to soak up Jackson’s endearing emoting. He might as well be playing to an empty room, to be completely honest.

But it is early at this Easter Monday all-dayer, and gradually the venue’s top room – the largest of the three under a single roof – fills with the inquisitive and initiated alike. The Siegfried Sassoon’s key-propelled quirky pop-punk – think The Blood Brothers meets Bis, maybe – hardly sets the air ablaze, but it’s a turn for the upbeat after such an introspection-laced introduction. Singer Chris Pratt is loose of wrist a la a certain Johnny Whitney, and disappointingly weak of voice, but muscular backing from his able bandmates covers over any cracks such a seemingly half-hearted exhibition leaves on the first-impressions-count ranks amassed before the Chertsy-based quintet. The final two songs of the set leave those initially utterly unimpressed with the band in a state of reappraisal – once shirtless drummer Nick Owsianka remembers he’s Fairly Shit Hot, The SS become a completely different band, one rippling with confidence and combustive bombast.

But their successful late salvaging of a so-so set is rendered forgotten after just a single song from local trio Herra Hidro. The relative newcomers – the band have but one release beneath their collective belt – carve up a photocopied Shellac songbook with three-way vocal harmonising, Cooper Temple Clause-like throatiness and killer chop-suey’ed riffs straight out of Primordial Hardcore 101. Vocalist Callum Price (pictured, left) seems more interested in what’s going on with his amplifier than what the crowd reaction is like, as he almost constantly stands with his back turned (that is, when he’s not required to sing), but when the band find their stride after a couple of numbers all in attendance are eating from their palms. Striking for all the right reasons, the three-piece’s comparative uniqueness to what precedes and follows them marks them out as a definite discovery, and an absolutely unexpected one at that. No doubt they’ll be gracing the DiScover pages of this website before long.

Fight Fire With Water are a more conventional proposition: the post-rock quartet from Ashby-de-la-Zouch are clearly capable musicians, but a lack of variety from arrangement to arrangement sours what, to begin with, is some thoroughly decent instrumental noise. A few songs in and DiS is forced to seek refuge at a nearby public house – that Southampton are playing Sunderland on the television has absolutely nothing to do with this skipping out for an hour or so. Nothing whatsoever.

We return in time for Score One For Safety, sadly missing the apparently great Public Relations Exercise (sorry guys – we’ll see you in August, though). Score One rock in a similar fashion to Fight Fire With Water, albeit with screamo vocals (singer pictured, right) occasionally piercing some frantic riffing. The effect on the onlooker is peculiar: neither offensive nor pleasant. At best their set, one that spills from the stage and onto the public floor, is confusing: do they want to be Das Oath or Do Make Say Think? Are they content to sound doubly generic, or is that the point? Presently they’re far from their own band, as influences, albeit myriad ones, puncture song after song, but there is potential aplenty in the Barnet bruisers’ build-ups and breakdowns. They’re interesting, although the placing of a finger on why is an impossible action.

Meet Me In St Louis are the band’s band of the day – whispers in the ‘back stage’ area certainly suggest as much, anyway. The Guildford/London quintet’s boisterous blast-beat punk, littered with slivers of emo of old, is enthralling for sure, but as a long-time fan of their work DiS is primarily concerned with the material from their forthcoming Variations On Swing debut album, due out in August. The verdict: yeah, sounds good (like you didn’t know that already). Vocalist Toby (pictured, below left) is as animated as ever, his dance moves surely the product of training with an electric cattle prod as a child, and the musicians around him are perfectly tight. But this isn’t their day, ultimately: better is to follow, and from the accustomed attendee’s point of view surprise package Herra Hidro’s topsy-turvy angles and awkward-to-categorise indie buzz is, for today, a little more satisfying.

twentysixfeet (pictured, main) express concern earlier in the day over their soundcheck options – a band almost totally at the mercy of a laptop, a sixth member that could so easily misfire, the Londoners are visibly bothered at being told they’ll be afforded a line-check only. Still, their pre-blast-off tinkering does take a little longer than many an act before them, and such patience pays off for both band and crowd: they sound huge. A couple of minutes aside, where one guitar seems lost in the cacophonous mix, the five-piece’s performance is little short of a masterclass in electronica-fuelled future rock, in hardware-aided hardcore with a heart of gold. The likes of 65daysofstatic, Idiot Pilot and, fuck it, Enter Shikari would to well to keep an eye over at least one shoulder, as with a following wind there’s no reason why twentysixfeet couldn’t be as acclaimed on a mainstream level: you can dance, sing, convulse and collapse to their sound-clash concoctions. Sooner rather than later, if tonight’s set is anything to go by.

As the ‘DJ’ – there is none, so far as we can tell – drops White Pony, another break is necessary. This time neither food nor drink is to be consumed – the sole reason for DiS’s temporary absence in the upstairs room is Pure Reason Revolution’s overblown prog-rock. What’s entirely digestible in a single serving is lumpy and unappetising when spread out across 45 minutes; few in attendance really care for the band, which is unfortunate given their status on the bill but predictable enough for anyone familiar with the bands before them. They’re out of place here, and while they’re not out of their depth by any means – if anything they’re treading deeper water – today is not theirs for the taking. Not with Youthmovies around, anyway.

Not that we can say anything critical about the day’s headliners, mind, as this news story will explain.

Photographs by Gary Patterson - website