Strummerville, Hearn Street Carpark, London

Bunting, flags and fairy-lights are draped around the Hearn Street car park in Shoreditch, playing host to what feels like something between the coolest birthday party ever thrown and the most peculiar festival you’ve ever been to. Strummerville, a musical charity set up in honour of The Clash’s late Joe Strummer, is a display of young and undiscovered talent. The new bands are tonight also joined by punk-turned-folk-singer Frank Turner.

Turner, celebrating his 1000th gig, appears to be in good spirits, albeit jet-lagged after touring Australia until a few days ago. Entertaining the crowd with just his voice and an acoustic guitar, the former Million Dead frontman’s music sounds like if Billy Bragg had gone to Eton. Turner’s simplistic songs tend to blur into one after a while, but that’s true of most folk music; what’s important is that his energy and charisma remain on top form. Blasting through hits past and present, at one stage he ditches his guitar for a vocal-only performance of new track ‘The English Curse’, a charming ditty about William II (or so I gathered).

Much of the night’s success could be attributed to the phenomenal audience – say what you like about East London folk and their hipster-ish tendencies, they certainly know how to have a good time. Barely pausing to breathe, the crowd seems to know pretty much every word that escapes Turner’s mouth. It’s quite the spectacle, and his gigs are worth checking out.

Of the other bands too numerous to review thoroughly, a couple truly stand out – the electro-pop of Bastille, and the energetic not-quite-sure-what-but-there-was-an-awesome-saxophonist performance by The Joker And The Thief. DJ sets from The Maccabees and One Love Soundsystem top the evening off – The Maccabees at one point sandwiching The Walkmen’s ‘The Rat’ between a bunch of motown hits, and the latter entertaining the audience with what appears to be a copy of Now That’s What I Call Reggae (or something to that effect).

To understand quite how surreal this evening is, you merely have to walk around in search of the elusive cash machine advertised on posters throughout the venue. I ask a man resembling Jason Statham where it could be found. He replies in a thick Cockney accent: “I’m the cash machine, ‘ow much d’ya want, mate?” before pulling out a card reader and a wad of cash from his inside pocket. It emerges later on that he is also the venue’s cigarette machine. God knows what else he was selling…

I may be spending the next few months checking every bank statement meticulously, but it’s worth any amount that gets defrauded from my account. And if that’s not a sign of a night well spent, I don’t know what is.