Supportophobia (-n).

Last night I went to see Deerhoof. You've heard of Deerhoof, right? That's because you've been reading Pitchfork. They're "the best band in the world," says Pitchfork. Of course they are, dear Pitchfork. Aren't you a little disappointed when a small independent website becomes big enough that they begin to deliberately create hype in order to prove that they have the power to make or break bands? Or just that they have the power? I am. Yet, somehow, I was sucked right in. I even caught the train a day early to see them.

Besides, I suspect this will be the last chance I get to see Deerhoof for under $AUD20. Plus, the bar was called Debaser, and on their cocktail list was an expensive Monkey Gone To Heaven.

But tell me this: why do these Nordic folk have a morbid fear of support bands? Doors opened last night at 10pm, Deerhoof made the stage at midnight, and in between time there was simply a DJ playing mostly predictable choices (Guided By Voices! Blonde Redhead!) to an apathetic crowd. I was the only one so much as swaying for Les Savy Fav's The Sweat Descends, and I was sitting down alone with a camera and a notebook. It is also amazing how far I have come across the oceans, to find a Swedish crowd looks exactly the same, from haircuts to boots, as an Adelaide indie crowd. It even seems that Sonic Youth t-shirts are in summer fashion here. I saw at least seven of them - I counted.

Deerhoof is not the best band in the world. They are prodigiously talented - the guitarist plays complicated stretchy jazz chords at a hundred miles a minute, using a Godin guitar and a Vox AC30 (hello Doug!), and always knows when to pull back and when to sound huge. The drummer was one of the most amazing such skin-hitting person I have ever seen - tight but completely wild. Deerhoof is The Band Pitchfork Made, but it is also a band made for Pitchfork: a cross between Blonde Redhead (complete with tuneless Asian-American girl singer) and Shellac, with jazz inclinations, they are all style and no substance, and a complete parody of the indie cred to which Pitchfork so madly strives. It was still well worth seeing, mind.

At 1am the DJ returned to play The Arcade Fire's No Cars Go, attracting a far drunker crowd to sway in the breeze. Attempting to touch, but never quite reaching far enough. A queue formed outside, making this place Stockholm's equivalent to Perth's Amplifier Bar, which only starts to fill with indie dancers after all the bands have finished. Me - I went home, back to the hostel which took me two hours in the rain to find (not knowing whether there would be a room booked for me in the end), to my top bunk bed, getting ready to face another Nordic day.