Outer this world: this year’s multi-venue extravaganza turns Bristol’s Old Market Road into an essential destination for new music discovery.

Now into its 5th year, Bristol’s Outer Town festival and its carefully curated line-ups has been establishing itself as an essential destination for anyone that loves discovering new music, and new bands. Resembling the structure of a multi-venue festival like Left Of The Dial, while there are more and less established bands on the bill – some, two albums in, some just two gigs – there doesn’t feel like a binding, all-encompassing headliner as such. It feels like there’s five, or six, or none, the focus being resolutely on discovering emerging artists, on giving a platform for the city’s grassroots scene and celebrating exciting talent from across the country. And luckily, this is all made a lot easier for us, given that everything at Outer town is ‘up the road’. All the venues are on one road, Old Market Street to be precise, with a delicious assortment of intimate and vibey venues spotted across a half mile stretch. Your next engagement is at the Exchange? “Yep that’s up there”. Elmers Arms? *points* “That’s it”. Bosh.

And so, slightly delirious from the National Express coach from London, and after a quick mosey around the craft stalls pitched up at the Trinity Centre, our first port of call, “just round the corner there”, is ‘To The Moon’ and the Skydaddy-curated stage. We’re here catch a whiff of local indie/folk hero Myer U Clark, who has just signed to Broadside Hacks Recordings. But we fumbled. It was heaving when we got there, just too late. And when we do get in, the crowd are singing along to ‘Kumbaya’, so it’s clearly rounding off to a close. Next time.

We learn early on, as we are thwarted by the queues going out the door for The Slow Country, that we might actually have to plan our manoeuvers a bit better. Disorientated, getting our shit together, The Cindys ease us into the afternoon at the Exchange with their languid, slacker-rock/power-pop sonorations. Representing legendary Bristol indie label Breakfast Records (the mention of the name from lead vocalist Jack Ogborne is enough to spark cheers), we learn, in-between calls for the crowd to move forward in the ever-filling room, that they’re airing tracks from their forthcoming second record, which they’d finished at 3:30am the morning before.

Long-time Hard of Hearing favourites Goodbye next. A year on from catching their set at Homegrown in a Brighton last year, their arresting brand of familiar yet uncanny dream-pop flourishes is sounding more and more assured. Songs from recent debut EP ‘These Things Take Time’ shine through, and the cascades of ’13a’ wend their way into my soul. All this wonder is offset by a break in play when the drummer starts hoarsely screaming in between songs. Maybe to get him in the zone. One of many Brighton bands on the bill here, during their set, guitarist Alfie mentions how he houseshares with the bassist of Glasshouse Red Spider Mite – sharing oat milk, their deepest and darkest insecurities after work, and now a festival line-up. Though the fact that Glasshouse switch instruments makes it unclear which ‘bassist’ he’s referring to. Splicing up their set in the so-called ‘Dungeon’ downstairs at the Exchange, with ominous spoken word samples exclusively about the arachnid after which they take their name, a dungeon feels a fitting place for their grisled, gnarled up brand of grungey slowcore, edging from Deathcrash-esque doom grooves to spidery plunges towards higher tempos.

Back to the Bristol scene, our desire to uncover some newer discoveries leads us to Shrink. Someone tells me later it’s their second gig, which is hard to believe considering the coherence of their performance. (Although also easy to believe given the bashfulness off their on-stage presence.) Pitching the tousled, soaring vocal acrobatics of Dove Ellis against a backdrop of classic, heart-on-sleeve alt-rock anthemia – think Sam Fender, Jeff Buckley, or Radiohead – there’s wailing Les Pauls and a bass player sipping Lucozade sport too, to help him maintain high levels of performance, let’s assume. Keep an eye on them, we say, by this time next year you might well have heard a lot more from them.

As the sun begins to set and the drinks start to flow, things start to get… rabid. At the start of Normal Village‘s set, the crowd is as you expect: three-quarters full pub at The Stag and Hounds standing expectantly, with a fair few holding pints. By the end, there’s a ruckus, a couple necking each other at the front, fists punching the air whooping and hollering. The energy of this Leeds avant-punk quartet – barely into their 20s – is furious, relentless and insane. Landing somewhere between hardcore Napalm Death-esque blast beats and the tricksy arrangements of early black midi, but charged with the yearning emo-spirit of UNIVERSITY, all of the confusing, stupid, passionate fire of life is there in Normal Village.

And something is up with Modern Woman too. Performing songs from forthcoming new album ‘Johnny’s Dreamworld’, the band’s guitarists push, shove and barge each other like bumper cars during their set’s surging freak outs, luscious long hair flailing, clinging to sweat-speckled cheeks. Like Cate Le Bon taking on Slits-style art-punk, it’s only midway through the set I realise there’s a violinist tucked in the corner, when he delivers exquisite strokes during a particularly stunning, stupefying ballad.

And the fever continued during the climax of our evening at TTSSFU, one of the festival’s handful of ‘headliners’. Peter from casual smart had managed to convince lead vocalist/guitarist Tasmin Stephens to come on stage in a bright blue Cardiff City hoodie and shout “Come on you Bluebirds!” before the Exchange becomes Bedlam. Throughout the set, and, at odds with many of the immaculate shoegazing cuts in the set, the moshpit milieu enjoys more surfs than a summer’s day at Bondi Beach. “This is the stupidest gig we’ve ever done. Normally no one moves at all, but here you’re moving a little too much”, Tasmin confesses through a beaming smile. And after a swirling, tremendous rendition of ‘I Hope U Die’, and this writer’s first ever crowd surf, that’s it. One more beer. Kebab shop. Outer Town? More like Outer This World.