There begins an almost divine premonition at small, personal venues, the first weaving stanzas of a story born in a manger of sticky floors and blown out speakers. A prophecy found somewhere between the dark ceiling, its pattern lost under layers of thick paint and grease, between the bands politely shouting to a sound-tech only across the room, and the screeching roadworks just outside. That, sooner rather than later, the bands here will be found on great, windswept stages,