Even the summer doesn t hang around up here in July. For the entire month, Belfast is like a fourteen-year-old left in charge of the house for the first time, who can t have a party in case all the local headbangers weigh in and wreck the place.

It really isn t funny. August, experience tells us, is far better. That s when the pragmatic souls start wetting the powder they ve all been keeping dry. And, thankfully, this year proves no different.
The first big night sees Radio One s Session From Northern Ireland s first birthday bash at the Limelight. Many are still nursing post-Witness comedowns, although significant others are just relieved to spend some time getting low-down and dirty again after OD ing (cheers Travis and David Gray) on those windswept first mortgage blues. The line-up s as promising as you d hope, opening with the magnificent Desert Hearts.
Charlie, Roisin and co put on a show as shambolically heroic as you would hope they don t play their best song ( DSRUSA ), or their best-loved song ( Florida Keys ), and they don t bother their arses singing along to half of their first single ( No More Art ). Instead, they concentrate in conjuring up sweet, instrumental panoramas, shy and big-hearted, that leave everyone swooning. But what of the rumours that Charlie was escorted from the venue at night s-end by a bouncer after a back-stage fracas? Well, it wouldn t be the first time. Scamp.
Audiosyncracy from Bangor are like the Beta Band with less B.O. While the Desert Hearts are wound-up and glacial, this lot are content to groove away whacking bongos and messing with laid-back beats. They also have a bassist who wants to make your jaw hurt. So, just when you think they ve hit a protected blissed-out roll, he butts in and makes the walls vibrate.
And headliners JJ72? Well, first thing to point out is that, no matter how manic and fraught lead-singer Mark s performance is, it is a truly bizarre sight seeing every male head in the audience ignoring him and instead turning in the direction of Hilary the bassist. A cross between Justine Frischmann and Bambi s mum, she s certainly won a teenage fanclub for herself among the indie droll-rock fraternity. And, to her eternal credit, she doesn t pay them the slightest bit of notice. The JJs, on a bad day, come across like the Rugrats playing Pablo Honey drenched in soul-searching gravitas while still waiting for their voices to break. But every now and then they find themselves in the middle of something that sparkles. So, jury still out, but their presence was appreciated.
Trust the Ski Bunny/Tunic family to be quick from the traps. Given their penchant for guerrilla gig promotions you just knew that during July s entertainment ramadan this mob would be champing at the bit. So shows from Go Commando and Olympic Lifts follow within a week of one-another at Auntie Annie s. Both bands are now confidently drifting from their old Tunic moorings, with the former enlisting flautists and brushing up on the classic 4AD art-rock template, while the latter are merrily sampling and messing with beats. It s soon going to be time for the deep breath before the plunge. Neither band look particularly worried.
Next up, in the spectral form of Sigur Ros, is some welcome overseas input. Luckily, there don t seem to be many Oasis fans in the Empire as they take the suitably theatrical stage, because late summer larks are not on the agenda. Jonsi sounds like a choirboy who s sold his soul to Eno. It s absolutely lovely and, even if you ve been on the lemonade, leaves you feeling tipsy. But it can seem endless. And mirth arrives when, at least seven minutes into one particularly fraught atonal voyage, the equipment packs up and they wonder if we d mind if they started again. Thankfully, sarcasm doesn t seem to translate into Hopelandic, so it s all the way back to the beginning, much to the crowd s bemusement. It s as well it s so good. Sigur Ros make you wonder why Mo Wax don t give some Gregorian monks a deal.
Then, at chucking out time, who do we find lurking outside but Phil Kieran? Seems he s handing around flyers for the next Sector One night, which kicks off in (big deep breath) about nineteen hours. He s also shouting Cheap Vodka. Cheap Vodka . The cynic.
The line-up proves to be up to its usual high standard, with both Jupiter Ace and Arrisnachos providing a fine blend of clever and ideas-stuffed dance. But, and I suppose he s entitled to seeing it as it s his baby, it s Phil who winds up stealing the show. He really is becoming special. An opinion shared by lots of the wasted kids present who ve just found out their A-Level results.
Outside and we find the town teeming with them being sick on our shoes, stealing our taxis. We re handed more flyers and watch posters being pasted up on the sly. Debates rage about catching Joey Beltram at Shine. Someone mentions that Jonathan Richman is due soon. Lou Reed will soon be amongst us.
Here comes the summer. Again.