Black Diamond Heavies, 30th Nov

It is a damp evening when I grudgingly leave my bike halfway up the Gloucester Road on my way to Caf?? Bar Unlimited. I cram my helmet, seat, rear mudguard, gloves and hat into my small rucksack after an amazingly coincidental case of perfect timing with the g-f and a trip to the bank, head into the unknown.

I know very little about Myopic Void, except that they feature the three core members of Gonga, a Bristol band I've yet to see, all reports indicate I'd probably quite like them. We somehow keep missing each other, or I'm just too lazy. Delayed guitar echoes up the stairs and summons us from our comfortable sofa. At the top of the stairs a young student-type says ooh they've got a tremolo pedal, how dull. I resist mocking him loudly and brush past smiling.

The tall guitarist is indeed playing atmospherics, distortion through a delay pedal. A figure is hunched over a Korg synthesiser, creating noise and other droney sounds while the drummer plays tribal rhythms. We sit right at the front because for some reason in this tiny space there is a huge gap in the room, as if the audience are afear'd of what might be. This builds up into a Hendrix crossbred with various metal bands groove that lasts for twenty minutes, peaking and troughing accompanied by vocals from twisted blues hell. My mind does start to wander occasionally, the various riffs stretched perhaps a little bit too long, like they'd perhaps got lost in it themselves. Still, some of it's really good, driving rockbluesmetalnoise so I'm pretty happy.

The Black Diamond Heavies feature slide twin-neck guitar, harmonica, Fender Rhodes and Hammond. They play glorious feelgood Southern blues. Everybody has a good time, because well, it's not new, or ground-breaking, or even 'punk rock' as the posters would have us believe. It's just really toe-tappingly good.

• (Pictures to follow when I get home)

The Gunpowder Plot, 5th Nov

28 bands, three stages, not enough time to see them all not least when two of them are about half an hour behind schedule and you are forced to throw your lovely well-planned itinerary out the window. At least you would if there were any windows, which there aren't so you don't. First shock of the day though, is that shopping up Gloucester Road takes a lot longer than I'd planned so we didn't arrive at Casablanca's until 4 pm. Second shock of the day is that the clubs are charging ??3 a pint, even though the whole event is supposed to be a pretty low-budget affair.

So SJ Esau plays some old Esau favourites accompanied by cello and the obligatory trumpet/violin/bass combo that is Max Milton, who plays in at least five different bands as the day goes on. The sound is terrible, but it is a pleasing noise, and I manage to get my hands on the last of his CD's The Wrong-Faced Cat Feed Collapse. As the feedback dies away, I want to stay for the metal assault that is Mea Culpa, but my companion isn't so keen on the idea and we elect to go to the nearby pub rather than give the vultures outrageous amounts of cash for weak low quality beer

When we return, Bucky are in full swing and on top form. An impromtu cover of Portishead's Glorybox is brilliant, as are their other short punky masterpieces. It seems to be over much too quickly, but we hope the next band will deliver as well.

An accidental encounter with the anarchy of Hunting Lodge drives us upstairs again. Santa Dog hold little interest for me, the drumming (standing up - look ma, no bass drum!) is frustrating and the songs are confused and muddle along with no real passion. Except for the third song, which is brilliant, or at least it would be if the drummer played the drums properly.

We leave / run away and go on to watch Big Joan who give us the performance of the day so far, the bass is huge and throbbing, the songs are aggressive and energetic, the drums sound fantastic and Annette is all over the balcony, leaning out over the audience like a figurehead of, well rock I guess.

We catch the end of Fortune Drive, a band who were good at the beginning, but seem to have settled down in the back of my mind with Lenny Kravitz and that era of proficient, but ultimately not interesting enough bluesrocksoul music. The singer still has a fantastic voice though.

Babel are once again folky rock legends, intense, desert-songs with 12 string guitars and no violin this time, but the Cellist makes do. For some reason (oh yeah, we're in a nightclub, aren't we?) they spray dry ice into the eyes of the front row, obsuring all but the ringing of the music.

I reluctantly leave Babel behind to go and pick up the G-F from the hospital, no don't worry - she works there. We return to the blue Mountain just in time to catch Rose Kemp doing Sing Our Last Goodbye a capella, her lovely voice just audible over the chatter of a busy bar.

As Knowledge of Bugs sets up, I get restless and realise that Geisha are due to play now. I am permitted to leave - no, we don't want our ears bled thank you very much - philistines. The appalling timing of Casablanca's is in full effect and I watch The Scrub finish their last song and stand around for a bit, waiting.

A drunk kiddie comes and tells me to cheer up. He asks me what music I'm into and tells me he likes all music and I should lighten up and open my mind. I tell him to fsck off and leave me alone, humbug. Like you have any fscking idea what I listen to!

Of course it's worth the wait, though. Geisha are a noise metal powerhouse and still they make me very happy for some reason. Perhaps it's the feeling that this level of noise and screaming should be making you feel sick, but it doesn't. Another drunk girl keeps asking me what they're called. I give her my program and point at Geisha. The Scrub? she mouths. I nod, sighing. Why do people try to talk in the face of the noise? I try to ignore everything and let the thrash move me. It is all too short though, because I have to leave again. Curse the timekeepers!

I have to leave because Caroline Martin is playing in the Blue Mountain. I rejoin the g-f and we settle down for yet another haunting, mesmerising and magical performance from one of quiet/miserable/lovely/scarey/acoustic music's new stars. The drunk kiddie gets me at the bar again. I'm sooo drunk! he says happily. Just how old ARE you? I say.

No-one tries to blow anything up. There are quite a few people dressed up for the occasion, some still thinking it's Halloween and some inexplicable costumes as well. I have pretty much totally failed in my journey to find new music, as anyone who reads my so-called reviews will know. I have seen all the people mentioned above several times. Still, there were a lot of people there and I think the whole thing was a pretty excellent event, bad timekeeping and ridiculous nightclub bar prices notwithstanding...

The Crimea, 23rd Nov

The Louisiana is packed for this one. I have consciously avoided any contact with the music in case it puts me off going, we have some of The Crimea's MP3s at home, I am told they are whimsical, have been described as folk rock and I might not like them. Still, ever on a quest to discover new and wonderful music (or a sucker for punishment) I commit, go out, get drunk and have a pretty good time anyway.

The Heights are playing as we arrive, jagged, tight songs that sound like most bands of the moment whose names begin with 'the'. There are a couple of notable exceptions, but this band don't like telling you what their songs are called. Occasionally the guitarist is allowed to show his true skills and hammers out some hard funky rock riffage, which makes for some pretty good songs. The closing number is a faux-country blues rock with modern sensibilities but is driving and energetic and my head nods involuntarily. This band have the makings of pop-rock stardom, notmycupoftea most of the time, but there you go.

The DJ is playing the Mars Volta as we head back to the bar. On our return, it proves to have been a fitting interlude as People In Planes are similar, with elements of Radiohead in there as well. They have progressive-sounding rock songs with difficult choruses and lots of variety, some great harmonies and musical intensity. And none of those plodding 'the' band pop songs, oh wait, there's one. Only one though, and it doesn?t last long. Hilariously my companion doesn't really like them at all and thinks that The Heights are much better. He is wrong.

At last it is time for The Crimea to show me what they're made of. They have a scarey bass player, Christmas lights around the drum kit and the guitarist has a bicycle light gaffered to his guitar. Mid-paced, quirky half acoustic music ensues, the singer has a strange affectation to his voice and moves like a robot.

At points the 'whimsy' becomes a little too much, too sickly sweet, but there are some strong songs in there. They play their pop singles in the encore as bubbles are pumped out over the audience, people sing along, and a good time is generally had by all but I can't help the feeling that they have somehow missed an opportunity to make their strangeness popular, by writing these quaint simple ditties. Overall, the set is more fast-paced than I'd expected and despite the pop and the bubbles I still manage to have a good time.

Band of the evening though, are the poorly named People in Planes by quite some way. I get very drunk and work tires me out so I completely fail to go out the next evening to my other planned gig.