July 21, 2003

I loved his album on first listen, and I eagerly set off into the wild backlands of the Old Street / Islington border areas, only stopping to ask for directions three times before finding the unmarked building - an old minicab firm "converted" (I use quotes to indicate the hole in the floor, guarded by a ladder and a Danger sign, as well as the plaster falling from the ceiling) to a tiny gallery space, on this night packed with every music journalist imaginable. Patrick came clad in an gauzy, mismatched top, presumably of his own creation, and played through nearly the whole album, rather a bit nervous but all the more endearing for it. At times he reminded me of a younger Trent Reznor, at others, simply a little lost boy sitting on the curb. In the space of an hour he played the viola, accordion, ukelale, and keyboard, and howled, crooned, squealed, and screamed in equal measure. And left us all scrambling for new terms to describe him, naturally.