Walking into the Buffalo bar, the first impression was "this is so indie it hurts!" - rightly so, given promoters and magazine-creators Artrocker's place at the hub of London's indie scene.

Not the corporate mega-indie of the self-pitying KeanePlay-Patrols and bouncy Kaiser Ferdinands, nor the hyper-cool drug-crazed scenes of the wild young kids in Camden, New Cross and Hackney, but good old straightforward indie of the sort that seems to just always be there.

The gathered throng were clad in that mix'n'match charity shop melange of mod, goth and grunge - eyeliner, spotty dresses, military jackets and Converse shoes to the fore - that seems to have been standard issue for gig-goers for two decades or more.

And they were skinny. Oh they were skinny - your reviewer's beer belly stuck out in more ways than one.

The first act, the three-girl-two-boy band Shrag, made a gleefully spiky racket. But they actually proved to be more versatile than just brittle punk shouting, especially on the moody break-up song Hopelessly Wasted On Me which verged on the anthemic and suggested they have real songwriting chops.

But when two-girl-one-boy Cardiff band Victorian English Gentlemens Club took the stage, they instantly signalled that we were about to see something - as perhaps the name suggests - a little more eccentric.

Dinging an old-fashioned school bell dangling from the drumkit, and all clattering pairs of drumsticks together into their mics, they launched into a melodramatic, bass-led song with guitarist Adam howling in somewhat disturbing fashion about hogs, dogs and other wild creatures.

The band - with Adam, bassist Louise and drummer Emma sharing vocal duties - kicked up an extremely impressive noise for a three-piece.

Throughout, the spirits of indie godfathers (and mothers) The Pixies and Sonic Youth were very much present - but it was less that The Vic Gents (as the MC introduced them onstage) directly referenced those bands, than they had learned from them precisely how versatile discordant electric guitars and the boy-girl vocal combination could be.

The Gents had a hugely impressive, dynamic range, moving from low-down churning-guitar fuzz to downright jaunty bouncing-off-the wall rhythmic playing and zippy swapping of vocal lines.

There was nothing one could call a chorus the milkman would whistle, but their yelped "ay-ay-ay" refrains and gutsy riffs certainly stuck in the brain, and moved the gathered kids to dance and whoop.

It was a short, sweet set, with a particularly snappy (about a minute) encore, but it was choc-a-block with ideas and character, showing exactly why obstreperous oddball indie has stuck around so long, whatever trends come and go.