So, you go to a dingy pub to watch some drummer play, and an alt-rock superstar rocks up and plugs in his guitar. Happens all the time doesn’t it?

Well, it probably does when the percussionist in question is the drummicane Chris Corsano. I’d seen his incredibly inventive solo show, supporting Jack Rose, in Bristol’s Cube Microplex (oh, the fun I had in the taxi trying to find that one) a month or so back, so figured I would head to the Old Blue Last in cooler-than-I Hoxton to catch him again. A friend had a friend from Lyon visiting, so I suggested it would be a good place to go for a not-so-quiet drink.

We find the stage strewn with not just drumming paraphrenalia, but assorted guitar cases, amps and mic stands. Puzzling, until, the overgrown teenage frame of Thurston Moore got up and starting soundchecking his guitar, and the air immediately became sodden with text messages of the “if you are nearby get here now” variety.

Corsano’s solo spot was a terrific, if more truncated version of the one I’d seen before, and which is documented on his magnificent (seriously, one of my records of the year so far) CDR “The Young Cricketer”. The acoustics which lent some of his circular breathing through sax mouthpieces and shower attachments the feel of having strayed onto the set of Apocalypse Now weren’t quite there, although I can hardly blame him for that. We were still treated to some beautiful quasi-gamelan, plucked strings and tiny cutlery percussion, as well as the occasional thunderstorm.

Barely pausing to accept the crowd’s acknowledgement, Chris moved his drum kit back a few feet, and was joined on stage by some sort of avant Blind Faith, as not just Thurston, but Ben Chasny (Six Organs of Admittance) and John Moloney (Sunburned Hand of The Man) kicked up and grumbled through some gentle feet-finding sound fragments. Corsano sat back, playing nothing where nothing was required, until the howls of feedback, and of Moloney, had risen to just below his chin. Chasny slashed his guitar, Moloney declaimed from window sills, and Thurston (as is his wont) humped his amp as the sound was beaten into shape around them.

Sometimes I just need to hear the big noise, and this was the biggest. However as the ensemble full stopped as one, and the sound system was switched back on, I felt my body absorbing melody like a dehydrated marathon runner does water. If my feet hadn’t been nailed to the floor, I’d be dancing.

And how cool does the French friend think her London acquaintances are now? Yeah, like this happens all the time…