I can taste the sweet smell Of success on your breath I know where it came from No need for chewing gum

I had meant to write about Kenickie last week, but I got distracted by the election. In the meantime, Kieron has put it better than I could. Damn him.

(did our glitter-encrusted book of goodbyes ever make it to the band? I think I destroyed my copy of what I wrote for it)

There's always the worry that you'll never have one of 'those' moments again. The rush and exhilaration of hearing a new song that sends a shiver down your spine; turning you into a devoted fan. A worry that the next band you fall in love with will be your last. After Kenickie, I cast my net overseas and stomped for Sleater-Kinney, before returning home to the past, rediscovering New Order via Temptation and the astonishment of hearing This Is What She's Like for the first time.

Then there was Johnny Boy, of course. A band that I could probably have wrangled an interview through my Static connections, but actively avoided because I would have turned into a gibbering loon if I got within ten feet of Lolly and Davo. Then I hitched my colours firmly to the Poptimist mast for a few years, reliving my Smash Hits days. But I was drifting a little.

There was only one thing I could do: I joined the International Tweexcore Underground.

I can't quite put my love of Los Campesinos! into words yet (I'm working on it for the end of the year, obviously). There's the titles - come on, how can you not adore a band that has a song called This is How You Spell, "HAHAHA, We Destroyed the Hopes and Dreams Of a Generation of Faux-Romantics"? Or the songs themselves, unquestionably British, indie, bouncy, all over the place, but on message all the time SUGAH! Ramshackle, full of doubt, guilt, vindictiveness, and the joys of having a good time. Just like Kenickie.

Hold On Now, Youngster has been a staple on my iPod shuffle all year round. You could have seen me bounce down the Banbury Road in the middle of April, or in the dying days of June, staying up all weekend fighting with InDesign, deadlines, and being permanently scarred at seeing pictures of our students playing strip poker. It was all for the very best of causes. When I saw that LC! were heading out on tour again (after missing them by one! ONE! day when we were in Madrid), I had to go.

My notes from last night of scribbled and hopeless. Except at one point I wrote that they're what Godspeed You Black Emperor would sound like if they had been born in Britain. I'm not sure how serious I was with that. Then, there was That Moment. You'll Need Those Fingers For Crossing. The words are too early, and wrong, but hey, isn't that Kenickie's Millionaire Sweeper, I hear you say? Oh yes. A grin on my face, a quick smile from Gareth out to the audience before launching into the song proper. Everybody bouncing down in the front; us in the middle doing a respectable amount of bouncing ourselves. Climbing up on the speaker stacks and singing from inside the crowd. How everybody sang along in a non-obnoxious manner, and how we all counted in My Year In Lists. Gareth sticking to his guns by calling We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed their new record.

Los Campesinos!, then. A band to fall in love with. A band to inspire a thousand fanzines soaked in glitter and PVA glue. A band that moves you to write over-the-top blog posts that you'll come back to in ten years and not be embarrassed, because they're that good. A band that has a huge chunk of Kenickie's Catholic guilt, eyeliner and park shenanigans deep in their DNA. A band that can say "We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed" whilst dreaming of being Tony Cascarino. Circa 1995.

Shred Yr Face. SHRED YR FACE!