Three bands at Dublin Castle and how I learned the concept of utter crap.

I went to Dublin Castle. The combination of Wednesday night and a few unsigned young bands could be a hit or a miss but considering the venue, a legendary indie rock cave in Camden, it shouldn't be this big of a miss. I think I witnessed the epitome of crap.

There was a band whose singer had such big boobs that she couldn't bend over to grab her pint of Guinness from the floor. She asked a guy in the audience (about eight people) to do it. They had a song called Sex, It Rocks. The drummer was wearing one of those neon-coloured construction site vests, and after the first song he took off the shirt he was wearing under it. The singer then asked for some underwear to be thrown on stage. They sounded like a massive cage full of tortured felines. There were only two people on stage.

The next band on consisted of five young boys. Not men, guys or even lads, but boys. And while four of them were actually technically quite good, the fifth one unfortunately wasn't. Sometimes you can hide the weakest link in your group but not when the weakest link happens to be the lead singer. His voice couldn't have carried an anorexic 9-year-old, let alone noisy and energetic rock. Oh, the guitarist of the band had no hand. Literally. I'm a small person and a bit disturbed by it but on the other hand (sorry, couldn't resist) I admire him. The admiration was compensated by his horrendous clothes. Think of American junior high school goes Primark.

At this point I was about to leave but bumped into two mental girls with pink hair. We downed a few sambuccas, trashed the bands and so I stayed. The next guys looked right (you can't go wrong with black skinny jeans and pointy shoes) but that's where the evolution stopped. Another lead singer that should wait until their voice breaks before they grab the mic. And after grabbing the mic, they should grab the pitch. The tune? One note? Whatever it is that you're supposed to be grabbing, it was far out for this guy. Kudos to the mental guitarist who spinned around and tossed and turned like almost an actual punk-rocker. The bassist had a gorgeous face but exchanged smitten looks with the girl drummer, which kind of killed the last incentive I had to watch the rest of the show.

I'm sorry, maybe I had a bad day. I did have a bad day. I love indie bands, good or bad or ugly and I respect their efforts and dedication to make it big, although most of them will never see an audience bigger than their family and cousins. But in a venue that once hosted Madness and Babyshambles, you do expect some kind of quality. And for the bands: yes, you are all mates and have been playing since third grade. But if your lead singer just cannot sing, let them go. It hurts, but it has to be done. Why are they singing in the first place? Is it the case of football goalkeepers? Just pick the guy who draws the shortest stick and make them take the spot since nobody else wants to?

Names of the victims have been intentionally left unrevealed. I'm not that cruel. Just a pretentious, snobbish music writer.