When “in the moment” of this gig, it felt like a spellbinding performance piece; an artistic spectacle played out to only a small handful of lucky people. Thinking back, and looking over my notes, it’s easy to see how S.C.U.M were reportedly nominated London’s Most Pretentious Band of 2009.

Even their entrance highlighted this, as they dimmed the lights of The Forum even further than they usually are, fired up a smoke machine and set off some strobe lights. It felt like the arrival of five unearthly beings, sent to this planet to educate its occupants on the values of stormy bohemia. In retrospect, this is all more than a little bit pompous. But, if the shoes fits...

Lead singer, Thomas Cohen, wastes no time in braking out all manner of foppish hand gestures as soon as these dandy lions of gloom-rock set about their business. It’s incredibly hard not to compare them to The Horrors, particularly with ‘Summon the Sound’. However, the stand-out track by far was their latest release, ‘Amber Hands’; the first single to be lifted from their impending debut album, due out in September. It gives a perfect reflection of their special brand of dark psychedelia, riding on the fading wave of shoegaze, first created by support act, Nerves.

Thanks to the techie who lost the setlist last minute, Cohen generally mumbling anything he said to the audience, and a drought of information online, I’m forced to guess the names of anything else S.C.U.M played that night. When it sounded like Cohen said 'Cast into Seasons', what followed had a sci-fi intro, giving way to another heavy rumble, twist and tumble into art rock. Cohen even ended up playing the tambourine down on his knees. Ordinarily, this would make someone look like a prize prick, but at the time, it was curiously mesmerising.

There was shuddering gothic splendour in the form of, erm, 'Coming Out...' and yet more theatrics with 'White Javelin' (?). An under-light shone across Cohen, which, surprisingly, wasn’t some form a distraction from poor musicianship. It did, however, cause him to become distracted by his own silhouette, which loomed on the wall next to him, like the overwhelming sense of pretense which now looms over my recollection of the gig.

S.C.U.M end on a song whose title I simply couldn’t decipher, but can confirm it is a writhing behemoth of macabre. And, with the spell broken, the audience of dazed students, confused middle-aged couples and dad-rockers disperse, showing little sign of disenchantment. Whether or not they were aware that the lead-singer is Peaches Geldof’s boyfriend, and if this would have changed anything at all, I’ll never know.