Tonight, however, it is acting as a temporary home to Shearwater, creators of rather learned folk rock that ranges from the poetically ethereal to the scarily loud and fragmented.

Formed by Jonathan Meiburg and Will Sheff to showcase songs deemed too quiet for their main act, Okkervil River, Shearwater have become a bit of a cult favourite among fans, so much so that Meiburg has now left his old band to concentrate on the side project full time.

It’s a bold move, but one that seems to be paying off, and the crowd in this intimate venue are loyal, dishing out a very warm welcome and shouting out requests from the word go.

They’re also very well behaved though, and as Meiburg begins with On the Death Of The Waters (the opener from latest album Rook), you could hear a pin drop between his milky Nick Drake vocals and tinkling keys.

That is until the song explodes with brass, bass and crashing drums – a sudden quiet to loud trademark move from a group who rarely deliver the expected.

Whether they are skipping down an Anthony And The Johnsons‘ style route on the heart-stopping I Was Cloud, or coming across all Radiohead with Snow Leopard, they are never far from building up their wonderfully controlled sound to a brain bashing wig out.

These moments are the true highlights, and with Meiburg’s eyes almost manic as his versatile voice soars in any direction, the only reaction is to stand and stare, amazed.

Meiburg isn’t the only draw though, and the band are superb throughout- particularly drummer Thor Harris who at one point manages to play a clarinet with one hand and a glockenspiel with the other. The fact that he appears to have arrived dressed as a member of Spinal Tap also helps, and with his orange trousers, plaited hair and furry bodywarmer, his every move is welcomed by the audience.

There’s precious little engagement by the band, but it shouldn’t be mistaken for a lack of confidence. Century Eyes, a short angry blast of madness, is briefly dedicated to John McCain, and we are treated to a cover of Talk Talk’s The Rainbow before the whole group decamp to the grand piano right at the back of the room for an Arcade Fire style impromptu encore.

Again, the crowd is rapt as the evening finishes on a quieter note and the band pick their way back towards the stage door holding their instruments before everyone else steps back out onto Uxbridge Road, dazed.

Shearwater proved to be beautifully eccentric and a thing of wonder, but not too scholarly to rock out. And with those flashes of bonkers brilliance, you just know they’re not above stumbling outside to wolf down a kebab on the way home too.

The most frequent and purposefully headline grabbing of these has to be their ‘new Oasis’ tag, a label that seems fairly at odds with a band initially known for the strength of their Scottish accents, but one that does at least have a little weight.

Discovered by Alan McGee? Check. While playing third on the bill at King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut in Glasgow? Check. Fronted by brothers? Check. Purveyors of moody, shouty anthems? Check, check and check again.

Of course, those kind of easy links are a record label’s dream, and the clamour won by Columbia for the signatures of the band has drummed up a fire and safety-busting capacity (and then some) crowd at the comparably small Scala in King’s Cross.

There is genuine excitement in the air tonight, and although it’s competing with some industrial strength sweat and stale beer, the emotion is palpable and appealing.

There’s even a smoke machine to the left of the stage, pumping out the first tendrils of Glasvegas’ dark image, and as they stride out to their trademark Phil Spector wall of sound, everyone is ready for an ‘event’.

Bassist Paul Donoghue and Rab Allen are first out, followed by Rab’s brother and lead singer James – all black jeans, tee shirts and sunglasses a la The Jesus And Mary Chain, an obvious influence in both style and sound.

Caroline McKay takes up her standing stance at the drums, echoing The Velvet Underground’s Moe Tucker (another big influence) as the sparse, driving beats kick into Flowers And Football Tops.

The effect is immediate, and as James Allen’s powerful voice punches into the crowd against a backdrop of huge lights and album artwork, the stadium-sized songs expand The Scala’s walls into a festival headlining slot.

Sounding as if Dion and The Belmonts have taken to the terraces, the band rattle through their mini rock n roll epics at pace, including It’s My Own Cheating Heart That Makes Me Cry and single Geraldine before everyone joins in with the anthemic ‘here we fucking go’ of Go Square Go.

Album track Ice Cream Van is stretched out in My Bloody Valentine tribute fashion, proving Glasvegas are certainly more than rockabilly revivalists, and by the time they close the set with their biggest number, Daddy’s Gone, the audience are at such fever pitch that Allen stops playing to give them their own chorus.

After just 40 minutes, Glasvegas have gone, leaving the front row to fight over set lists. There’s little doubt that the desired ‘event’ was well and truly delivered by a band that not only looked but sounded the part too, and with a string of bigger dates in the UK and US, it seems the only question now is ‘who the fuck are Oasis?’

No, when they say ‘smart’, the makers of this film mean the American version of smart, better known to us Euros as intelligent, clever or big bloody brainboxes.

Here, the smart person in question is Dennis Quaid, and for us, his brainy bragging rights are already well secured- after all, he did pilot his way out of Martin Short in Inner Space, which is no mean feat.

Here, he’s more conventionally clever as widowed literature professor Lawrence living with precocious daughter Vanessa (Ellen Page). The prof is arrogant and hates his students, but worse still, he’s as socially inept as Barry George.

His brother, played by Sideways’ Thomas Haden Church, soon shows up and turns out to be the polar opposite of his stuffy sibling, sparking up a joint with Vanessa and taking her out for some good old underage drinking.

Meanwhile, Lawrence has managed to fumble his way into a relationship with doctor Sarah Jessica Parker, and for the rest of the movie we watch as he tries to mess things up, she frowns and ultimately everything kind of gets a bit better.

It’s all quite familiar dysfunctional American family territory, and fans of The Squid And The Whale or The Savages will recognise the middle-aged angst, acoustic guitar soundtrack and cord jackets present in all of these films.

Smart People also makes great use of facial hair as a signifier of intelligence, and there are more beards here than in 300. In fact, the only intelligent person on our screens for any length of time without a beard is Ellen Page, and she just wouldn’t look right with a goatee.

In all honesty, not an awful lot really happens here, but there are some nice moments and polished acting, particularly when the family are all together. Christmas dinner is a memorably awkward scene with Haden Church on fine form as the loser brother, and another highlight has to be Quaid’s pillow talk (“I thought it went OK? I just don’t want to blow it with you. Do you have any plans for Christmas?”).

So although you may sit wondering what you’ve just been doing as the final credits roll, it’s an enjoyable enough way to spend an hour and a half, during which time you could even put a bit of effort into growing a beard of your own and becoming a very smart person indeed.

In new US import Samantha Who, however, the list of things to forget is as long and distinguished as Slider’s Johnson, featuring a lead character who just can’t remember a damned thing.

As it turns out, that’s a definite plus for Samantha Newly (Christina Applegate), the victim of a hit and run who awakes from an eight-day coma only to discover she has retrograde amnesia.

Family and friends are strangers, but the one thing that our Sam can discern is that until right now, she has spent her life as a full time megabitch who could give lessons in how to lose friends and alienate people.

The premise of the show is that Sam now has to go about discovering the extent of her old ‘Bad Sam’ persona, torn between Andrea – her old partner in putdowns – and Dena, a rejected high school friend who has taken advantage of Sam’s amnesia to announce herself new BFF number one.

If that all sounds slightly familiar, that’s because, er, it is. My Name Is Earl has already trod similar ground, albeit with more invention and humour, and as Sandra Bullock’s remaining fans will remember, While You Were Sleeping also rings a few bells here.

Lack of originality may not be a surprise from co-creator and producer Cecilia Ahern though; the daughter of former Irish Taoiseach Bertie Ahern was responsible for the novel of Hilary Swank vehicle PS I Love You, a rom-com so sickly sweet it could remove your stomach lining.

Not that that has held Samantha Who back, and after a successful first run in the states with Emmy nominations for both Applegate and Jean Smart as her fame-hungry mother Regina, the second season is starting soon on ABC.

How they’re going to keep the plot going will be interesting to see, but this pilot episode does have plenty to enjoy. Applegate does her ‘yes I’m really pretty, but ooh, I’m so sarcastic’ brand of humour that worked so well in Anchorman, and when she reverts to ‘Bad Sam’ she’s a lot of fun to watch.

Jean Smart is also sharp as her laughably bad mother, throwing some great barbs at Jennifer Esposito’s Andrea and stealing most of the scenes she’s in.

So it’s passable, if very girly, fun – but then what is Sunday night E4 for? It could definitely be a grower, but it seems that Samantha Who, like her own past, may be all too easily forgotten.

What we generally take cult to mean is that the thing in question isn’t of much interest to the world in general, but thanks to a devoted bunch of obsessives, those who don’t know accept that it must be kind of cool.

Big Star are certainly that, and even if you haven’t heard them directly, you might have come across a cover by artists as varied as The Bangles and Elliott Smith or their song In The Street, used as the theme tune to That ‘70s Show (another cover by fellow 70s rockers Cheap Trick).

Even if you’ve missed all of that you’ll know about some of their supporters. Primal Scream’s Bobby Gillespie recently said “everybody in Primal Scream is a big fan of Big Star”, Wilco and Idlewild featured on a 2006 tribute album, and Teenage Fanclub practically are Big Star, but Scottish.

The reason for their cult status? Well, they made three critically acclaimed albums in the 1970s that nobody bought, original band member Chris Bell was tragically killed in a car accident in 1978, and, as we’ve seen, they’ve influenced more bands than class A drugs.

On top of that there’s the music, and the band’s back catalogue of sun-drenched, nostalgic pop songs is the real reason for tonight’s sell out crowd. The downside of the cult tag and its implied cool is that it attracts the kind of slack-jawed scenesters more at home in Shoreditch, but as Poison might say, every rose has its thorn.

Opening up is fellow resident of the cult files, Robyn Hitchcock, who takes a break from his very British psych pop to announce that this is an evening of the direction music could have gone in, but didn’t. He also claims that he is Carmen the great and his diet is blood roses, but hey, nobody’s perfect.

Big Star start their set with the aforementioned In the Street, as lead singer and writer Alex Chilton (who looks remarkably like Dr Sam Beckett from Quantum Leap) grins his way through the harmonies and hooks.

Chilton is one of only two original members including drummer Jody Stephens, but with sterling work from relative new boys Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow, Big Star are so slick you’d never guess they took a break for nearly 30 years.

At every chance fans call out for their favourite track, and all the hits including Thirteen and September Gurls get an airing, along with I Am The Cosmos from Chris Bell’s solo career. There’s even a bizarre Edward Elgar recital in honour of Chilton’s love of British music.

A closing selection of tracks from the 2005 comeback album is a little muted, but it hardly matters. It has been an evening with heroes for everyone here, and as Big Star return for an encore of The Beach Boys’ Wouldn’t It be Nice, they’ve proved they deserve to transcend their cult status and take a place alongside the band they’re covering in the rock and roll hall of fame.

Forget ‘The’ bands, 2008 is all about ‘Kids’ bands. There’s London electro punks Dead Kids, Floridian indie-meisters Black Kids and New Kids On The Block.

OK, so the latter are reforming and the only time they ever get close to anything to do with kids is probably late at night in tour hotel rooms (changing nappies, obviously, what did you think we meant?) but they still count. Honest.

Returning to Black Kids though – this year is, we’re told, really going to be a big one for them. They’ve already been marked out as ones to watch by the BBC and rock behemoth Rolling Stone, and all this before their debut album has so much as sniffed a shelf.

The record in question, Partie Traumatic, has been produced by indie stalwart and ex-member of Suede Bernard Butler, and will be released on July 7 for your listening pleasure. In the meantime, you can catch the Kids at Glastonbury, T In The Park, and pretty much every other festival this summer before they head back stateside to make more waves.

Before they become everybody’s new favourite band though, they’re headlining the bill at the University of London Union with two bands from New Zealand: Collapsing Cities (whose Fear Of Opening My Mouth is darned good) and Cut Off Your Hands, who have been championed by Steve Lamacq, possibly explaining his presence at the back of the hall.

Also wandering around solo is the aforementioned Bernard Butler, who is getting busy with the Cut Off Your Hands album as well as the Black Kids.

It seems very good of Bernie to just mix it with the proles down in the crowd, but we may hear more from him later.

Anyway, after what seems like an age, Black Kids finally arrive. Led by the already unmistakeably gangly figure of lead singer Reggie Youngblood (yes, it is a cool name,isn’t it?) with his sister Ali in charge of crowd relations, the five-piece make a slow start.

After a little dark, disco-tinged indie, things move up a gear with I’ve Underestimated My Charm (Again), and the ‘Robert Smith covering The Go Team with Arcade Fire’ sound of their debut EP Wizard of Ahhs is in full fantastic flow.

It’s not until they’re joined by producer Bernard Butler though (told you he’d be back) that they really seem to start enjoying themselves, and as he gets stuck in on guitar, Youngblood relaxes into his surroundings and goes to town on Hurricane Jane and crowd favourite I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You.

These are the tracks that everyone was waiting for, and it does seem like a bit of a release for the band, who are all suddenly sporting huge grins and saying how happy they are.

The feeling, it’s safe to say, is mutual, and the Black Kids experience has been as uplifting and fun as we were told it would be. Time, perhaps, to start believing that hype.

Songs are a lot shorter than your average film though, and therefore, should be a lot harder to make a mess of. Although not if you’re Mark Ronson, whose grindingly shit (and admittedly incredibly successful) take on covers involves simply a jaunty rhythm and a trumpet. Again. And. Again.

Anyway, whatever the failings of the twat in the hat, you surely can’t go wrong with an album packed full of Bob Dylan belters can you? Well, maybe in some ways you can.

Acting as the soundtrack to the recent Todd Haynes pseudo biopic of little Bobby Zimmerman, what you get here is a whopping two CDs and 31 tracks of artists paying tribute to the man himself.

Unsurprisingly among such a big bunch, there are a few that fall short. Charlotte Gainsbourg is so breathily sexy that she sounds like Mike Myers’ Marilyn Monroe impression from Wayne’s World, Anthony Hegarty fails to beat Axl Rose’s version of Knocking On Heaven’s Door (no shame there), and poor old Marlon Jennings gets saddled with an impossible task after picking The Times They Are A Changin’ out of the hat.

How to handle some of Dylan’s more iconic songs does seem to be one of the problems here, and another that suffers is Eddie Vedder’s All Along The Watchtower. Apparently putting your own spin on one of the 20th century’s most recognisable songs just isn’t that easy.

On the whole though, the songs chosen are a little more off the beaten track and the artists selected prove to be a high quality group of interpreters.

There’s a healthy bunch of contemporary Dylan fans such as Jeff Tweedy of Wilco and Jim James of My Morning Jacket, but also contemporaries of Bob himself in the shape of Willie Nelson and Roger McGuinn.

We even get a track from Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, of whom Dylan was a big fan, and fittingly, his take on Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues is one of the most authentic moments. Dylan bassist Tony Garnier also appears as part of the album’s ‘house band’ The Million Dollar Bashers.

Authenticity can become a bit of an issue, with several songs descending into impressions more than anything else (step forward Cat Power), but as the actors in the film found, doing an impression of Bob can be a lot of fun.

Ultimately, the soundtrack’s main success is to reflect the film by covering each facet and phase of Dylan’s career from rock to religion and back again. Fan’s will relish the inclusion of Dylan’s own I’m Not There for the first time on an official release, but its interpretation by Sonic Youth is one of the best tracks here, proving that this interesting collection will keep anyone’s interest for months to come.