The 12 Bar Club in Denmark Street, just a drunken swagger from Soho, is to the London gig scene today what the legendary (now sadly defunct) CBGBs was to NYC in the 70s – a down ‘n’ dirty, feet-stuck-to-the-floor, gloriously seedy dive where anything can – and often does – happen. From the outside it’s a blink-and-you-miss-it cafe-fronted affair, although its classic circular logo is instantly recognisable once you clock it. Enter through the fairly innocuous table and chair frontage and – bang – you’re straight into the moshpit, on your left a decadently stocked bar awash with torn ‘n’ worn posters from its blues and punk-fuelled history, lovingly staffed by characters straight outta the rock icon handbook. And all encased in a lovingly weathered shell of graffiti and thrilling memorabilia. Just don’t ask for a goats cheese panini.

It’s been mein-host to The Libertines, Seasick Steve, Martha Wainwright and countless other mavericks who have graced its miniscule rouge-swamped stage. Stick a drumkit and a mic up there and you’re left with the guitarist virtually hanging from the rafters. It’s that cosy.

But as a place to experience live bands, up-front, raw and rugged, it really can’t be beaten. And there’s more than just the music – it’s an Alice rabbit warren of a hang out. Turn a corner here, there’s a place to down shots and shoot pool; head through a fire exit there and you’re outside on the legendary Tin Pan Alley, rubbing hips with the spectres of Hendrix, Moon and a quiet riot of lost indie dreamers with faraway eyes, hidden away from the orgy of muso shops and Noel wannabes on the streets beyond.