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The first thing I notice after the doors open (a queue stretching up the street outside, just like the good old days) is how young the audience are. It's a 14+ event and, judging by many of the faces bobbing about in front of the stage, the music-savvy young folk of Wrexham are eager to take up the invitation.

Which is the whole point of this: introducing great bands to a new audience, and - maybe - inspiring some of them to make interesting noise of their own. The universe would crumple in on itself were it not for interesting noise keeping it all puffed out and imperfectly shaped. Not a scientifically validated theory, but it is mine. So there.

At 6:48pm, 12 minutes before the doors open, I make a mental note to finally get a good photo of . I've seen them a few times but whenever I try to take photos of them, they come out awfully. It's not the band's fault - they're Greek Gods to a man. More to do with my inability to shoot them without getting microphone stands in the way. Some achievement when you consider they're an instrumental band.

It's 7:15 and - already - someone is snogging in the hatch to the DJ booth. I'm DJing. The audience are - rough estimate - a third the age of my usual crowd. Some dusty old Stones tracks and a bit of Motown with 'something modern' slapped in between isn't going to cut the mustard. Pulled Apart By Horses and generate some foot-tapping, then I'm up on stage. God, I hate doing this bit. Standing like a melon-headed buffoon under blinding spotlights, approximately 478% less cool than the people on stage, knowing with certainty that I'm going to trip over something, trash an expensive amplifier into a priceless vintage guitar. Baseless fears, thank goodness. The microphone doesn't work, but that's a small mercy for the audience.

"A big welcome for !" - big cheers; a bit of a pause, then the guitars break in like anti-burglars intent on sticking valuable song trinkets in your head that weren't there before. No Room For Heroes are almost as young as some of the snoggers on the dancefloor. They're as close as Wrexham currently has to the remarkably successful rock bands that clog up streets in the South Wales valleys (as excellently documented in Bethan Elfyn's recent Radio 1 documentary).

There's great conviction here and riffs you could jack juggernauts up with. And there are also unexpected twists that show No Room For Heroes aren't content to simply copy from the Rock Handbook. They want to write chapters of their own. They've got the skills (skillz?), and the reasons music authorities in Wrexham think these are the 'ones most likely to' are much clearer after a thoroughly enjoyable set.

Sorry, No Room For Heroes. I just managed to make you sound like a country walk.

More tunes in the DJ booth. I'm already running out. A bit of Future Of The Left. Some . A bit of Crash Disco. And are on stage, being introduced properly by Beth Elfyn. She manages to make the crowd ROAR! I must go do a Â鶹Éç course on introducing Introducing bands.

When I first saw Trader a few years back they sounded in thrall to jangly bands who had split up before they were born. But the last couple of years has seen Trader grow muscles. For a band who deal in the familiar primary colours of indie rock - guitar/bass/drums/voices - they're unpredictable songs with no obvious antecedents.

I hear bits of Mercury Rev and The Flaming Lips - but they're not as out there as either of those two bands. The songs are clever and nagging. Especially the one that appears to insist "the spiders have the hole" repeatedly. I don't want to know what the correct lyric is, thanks. Very good. Like a step ladder that leads up to a cubby hole filled with secret delights. An analogy specially designed for Freudians.

I clamber through the snoggers (very awkward, that) back to the DJ booth. "He's got a great voice," says Beth. She's very right.

I get to introduce . This time the microphone works fine and howls like an early Jesus And Mary Chain gig whenever I try and say anything. I know I'm not supposed to be reviewing my own contribution to the night. As if anyone gives a hoot about that. I'm just chronicling this to remind myself to fabricate any excuse possible to avoid introducing bands from stages in the future. I'd snap an ankle in the blink of an eye if I thought it'd do the trick. Maybe even one of my own.

I've never seen Polly before despite having played her on my show numerous times over the past few years. There's a confidence in the way that the band bear themselves on stage that comes from their experiences over the last couple of years at SXSW and - only last weekend - playing the Great Escape in Brighton.

There's an effortless insouciance about Polly. She has a rare and uncontrived charisma. And the band make a mighty fine sound. Guitars duel with understated keys and synths, and Polly's voice pulls the whole thing this way and that in a most beguiling way. They're very good. But I'd like to hear more light and shade.

They sound like a band who have, understandably, become confident in their abilities and who, therefore, might be in danger of rather resting on that knowledge. I'd like to hear more adventure, more risks being taken, an application of fierce imagination to the whole dynamic.

Please don't misunderstand me: they're very good, but to be great will require the shredding of some creative comfort zones. I prescribe a course of Janis Joplin, Patti Smith and The Knife to be taken thrice daily. They - in reply - prescribe I "shut the heck up!". They right. It's a lot about convictions, after all. I swear I will choke on my own pomposity one day.

"Get a decent shot of Gallops! get a decent shot of Gallops! get a decent shot of Gallops!"

This is the mantra preventing me from DJing with any musical dexterity while Gallops get themselves ready. I grab my camera and make it to the pit in front of the stage. I kneel down. No microphone stands in the way. I can see Mark and Paul quite clearly. Brad - and fringe - is also in shot. Moz, drummer, frightens my camera. But I'm all set. I'm finally going to get that decent shot of Gallo... HOLY HELL!

I was kneeling in front of the speakers. Now I am on my arse, splattered against the crowd barrier, camera dangling from a near useless hand, battered into this position by the very first note of Gallops' set. A note so loud, so full to the brim of bass heaviness, it has physically shoved me over. And - like a fool - I don't have any earplugs. I do - Bethan gave me a pair - but I eschewed them in favour of the thrill of volume. Without loud, rock n roll is just roll. And if I wanted a roll, it would probably have tuna and cheese in it.

I just want to get away. I'm scared. It's like being in the middle of a firefight - Gallops violating the audience with clusterbombs of arpeggiated crunk. Clearly, it is also incredible. But I don't want to witness if from HERE. It's making me sick. I toss off a couple more shots trembling in fear of my ears. Maybe this is why I never get a good shot of Gallops.

Having retreated back to the DJ booth in a daze, duly noting Bethan's "I told you so" expression as I scrabble for my earplugs, I can fully absorb the intricate, fascinating, monstrousness of what Gallops do. It's hard to describe on a Â鶹Éç blog because the requisite words are all banned here. Most of them begin with 'F' and end in dribbling.

I'm conflicted about why feeling like you've been attacked with a sledgehammer made out of guitars, drums, and sequenced basalt should feel like such a thrilling thing. But it does. There is craft here, too. Lots of it. But in a live environment, this is music to wind you, to make you go "wow"; save your appreciation for the clever fiddly bits when their EP comes out in August.

Tonight Yr Wythnos Fach is in Colwyn Bay.

I know exactly where my earplugs are this time.

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