Charlie Mooney is explaining why Hit The North s preferred location for an interview with his band Desert Hearts was a non-starter.

I m barred, he says sheepishly. But I ve sussed out how they operate. The bouncers change around every three months, so I just have to wait until the next batch come in. I think it s September the tenth.
Bassist and co-founder Roisin Stewart shakes her head. I can t believe you know the date. But Charlie is well versed in these black arts.
The last Belfest, we kept being offered venues and I was like, No, can t play there. I m barred. Sorry, can t play there either. I m barred. But I ve got over it. Honestly.
If you know Desert Hearts, the above exchange will not surprise you. If you don t, it s time to catch up.
Formed three years ago in North Antrim by Charlie and Roisin, with only a cheap and defective drum machine to keep the duo company on stage, their earliest appearances were met with a mixture of incomprehension and wonder. Much of this was down to the odd visual presence the band had on stage. They really were striking. Try to imagine a teenage Black Francis and Kim Deal, dressed by Gilbert and George, with a fetish for on-stage fits and wrap-a-round baco-foil. And the songs? No matter how crap the PA, or how cheap the gear, or how far a performance (and it was a performance) survived before the whole thing packed up and crashed to a halt, Desert Hearts music revealed itself to be something grand and gorgeous. Like early New Order at their most fragile, or Tom Verlaine whispering in a Cushendal accent, they were enthralling.
However, it was abundantly clear that in order to make the next leap, reinforcements were needed. Jonathan, Mark and Brian from Olympic Lifts were already friends and, just as importantly, hugely enamoured. So, Desert Hearts Mk2 emerged tighter, slightly more chilled, and, maybe, a bit more acceptable to the casual on-looker.
At least that was the theory.
At a Christmas gig in 1998, they blew headliners co.uk and Snow Patrol out of the water, inspiring an endearingly wide-eyed on-stage eulogy from Gary Lightbody. Three months down the line, and, ironically, at the same venue, they were having their plugs pulled by doormen, anxious that their display was going to provoke a mini-riot. The night ended with Charlie in a heap at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Helped on his way by a bouncer with apparently no love for wide-screen, post-rock poetry.
At last, some thought, here was a band capable of inspiring devotion one night, and absolute pandemonium the next.
When they supported The Buzzcocks, Pete Shelley was so smitten he followed them around the bars of Belfast for the rest of the night.
Soon, though, it was time for another change. The link-up with the Olympic Lifts was always a temporary thing, when the trio left to concentrate on their own stuff, Charlie and Roisin called on Colin Campbell - an equally precocious talent in his own right, who had been drawing plaudits for his work as Kidd Dynamo.
I d known them for about a year, says Colin. Just through going round to their house, drinking beers and sitting in silence.
That s actually true, Roisin affirms.
But his introduction made a world of difference. Now, the band seemed like a real, cohesive unit. As Charlie says: Looks more like a band. Feels more like a band.
The gigs were tighter, the distracting on-stage antics virtually sidelined, and the music sounded lovelier than it ever had.
Within weeks Desert Hearts Mk3 had landed itself a deal with Rough Trade subsidiary Tugboat, and, before the end of the winter, their single No More Art was being dissected in the British music weeklies.
I think singles are pretty important, says Charlie. You don t want to put out crap in case people point at you in the street and say That s that lot who put out that shit song . It probably makes it easier when you re playing live as well, cos you can go, This is a song called suchandsuch , and people go oh, right.
Roisin is a tad more pragmatic. Over here people have to be told a band are good, but just getting a single shoots your profile way up.
The release of No More Art has also seen the encroachment of a word into the Desert Hearts vocabulary that anyone lucky enough to see them play poker onstage instead of their instruments will surely never believe.
We re going to try to be a bit more professional.
They ll have to be. By Halloween, they will have played at this year s In The City in Manchester, and, following a sojourn to The Delgados studio in Scotland, will hopefully have the second Tugboat single in the can.
Given that, even during their most shambolic live fiasco, Desert Hearts still glowed brighter than the vast majority of their peers, with all this newfound appetite for elbow-grease and time-keeping, who knows what they ll achieve.
The main thing about our band isn t the individual songs, explains Charlie. It s the intensity and the atmosphere. Even if it s just playing one note on a guitar for half an hour, you want people to go away thinking that they ve felt something weird inside them.
But does this nascent professionalism mean they ll be keeping out of trouble?
Charlie isn t hopeful.
I can t seem to get friendships going with any of the bands in this town. I ve tried but they just don t get along with me at all. It s all got to do with beer and a little arrogance and there s a certain sarcasm that people don t pick up on.
Maybe they ll have better luck in other places. It can t be long until they find out.

Desert Hearts play Eamonn Dorans on October 6th.