What the hell is wrong with me? Can’t be the drink, I’ve only had two pints. Lack of attention? Maybe. Deteriorating eyesight in my advancing years is a real possibility. One floppy fringed skinny indie dude looks much like another, right?

I’m at the merch stall post-gig and that bloke knocking out t-shirts and LPs is definitely the impressively moustachioed guitarist/synth player, but I’m ponying up my used oncers to the fella who – as far as I’m concerned – was laying down the impressive bass for incomparable Mexican sonic manipulators ‘Lorelle Meets The Obsolete’.

“Great show, old bean. You were there,” I say, indicating the breast pocket on his shirt. “Huh?” (which is exactly what you’d expect the bassist to say). “You were there. In the pocket.”

The lad’s face is now exuding a mixture of confusion, exasperation – just take your CD and go! – and genuine fear, as he finds himself faced with a deranged Englishman fondling his shirt, far, far away from his Mexican home.

And now it’s dawning on me. This guy really isn’t as tall as the musician I’d admired on stage. That hair: it’s a lot shorter isn’t it? And why doesn’t he understand my phrase of praise: that he was locked into the groove? Any rhythm section musician worth their salt would know there is no higher compliment than being in the pocket. Unless of course this is someone who’s not been anywhere near the stage tonight. Or possibly ever in their life.

What ever happened to the noble art of taking credit where none was due? I know I would. I know I have.

I was strolling along outside Ally Pally once and an imposing fellow in full motorcycle leathers approached. “I love your work,” he said. “Thank you very much.” I didn’t so much as blink. Sure, it’s conceivable that this was a case of mistaken identity, but on the other hand, why wouldn’t he love my work?

After the viral ascent of the Twitter rumour (1.8 million views!) that I performed on bass for the Croatian entry in this year’s Eurovision – which I can neither confirm nor deny – I met every hail of “Well played!” and “Loved the performance!” with a jolly “You’re too kind” (bashful enough I think). After all they were too kind.

When a Ukrainian woman gripped my hand and – eyes welling with tears as she remembered the peaceful land of rolling hills and wheat fields that she’d been forced to abandon – thanked me, as her voice cracked with emotion, for highlighting their struggle through Croatia’s anti-war song, I held her gaze and told her it was the least I could do. It was the least I could do.

So why didn’t this boy simply enjoy bathing in the glorious halo of somebody else’s talent?

Believe me, the bass ‘Lorelle Meets The Obsolete’ produced was thunderous. Speaker-rattling, bowel-shudderingly brilliant. I wonder if anyone has ever soiled themselves while watching a band due to military-grade low frequencies? This spanking bottom end provided the grounding for the group’s mental electro psych tunes. Like Depeche Mode on magic mushrooms (or dangerously deranged on ‘Datura’, as namechecked in the title of LMTO’s new album).

Impossible to tell what language they’re singing in and it doesn’t even matter. Deeply disturbing and joyously uplifting at once.

While I candidly admit that with my cod ogles I cannot differentiate the appearance of one person from another, you can trust my Aunt Nells that I know a thrilling band when I hear one. ‘Lorelle Meets The Obsolete’ is exactly that.

THE VENUE

The Lexington is a classic London boozer turned lounge bar, with a hint of Kentucky charm and lashings of rock & roll excess.  In an early-Victorian building access is not easy for those with limited mobility. While the main bar is on the ground floor and accessible without steps, the music venue is up a flight of stairs. They’re happy to help with access where possible – give them a call or drop them an email.

The Lexington, 96-98 Pentonville Road, London, N1 9JB 

0207 837 5371 info@thelexington.co.uk