Fee Fie Foe Fum

Festive Fun with Mumford and Sons at Fee Fie Foe Fum

Fi Fie Foe Fum is an office party like no other. Everyone is dressed impeccably, the drink is flowing and people are dancing with abandon. But there are no po-faced managers or giggling secretaries in sight, just the elite of the UK's new-folk scene all in one room. This is a festive celebration of all the twee talents who have started making inroads into the musical landscape in the past year.

Cargo is already bustling as Jay Jay Pistolet plays his doleful, melancholy music. The understated singer-songwriter divides opinion with his nonchalant use of effects on his microphone. He conjures a tone similar to that produced on a creaking gramophone, but his songs have a depth and tenderness to match the antiquity of the sound. When he claims he has never heard any of the rest of the bill, but suggests the crowd enjoy them anyway, this masks the closeness of the artists on display.

Most of this bunch have been touring, recording and dating each other and there's an easy familiarity between the audience and artists too, a cosy, celebratory feel that culminates in Mumford & Sons' performance. While half of the four-piece are usually in Laura Marling's backing band, tonight they lay claim to the gig's most entertaining set, despite two acts being higher on the bill.

Singer Marcus has the giddy look of a man confident in his songs and his setting, blasting into the jostling folk of White Blank Page with aplomb. However, the swerving, cantering nature of Banjolin Song epitomises their performance, its soaring harmonies pitch perfect and snatching a jubilant moment from the raucous venue. They are strident but playful, clearly enjoying themselves utterly. As they depart after a set that is far too short, the wait for their debut album seems suddenly too long.

Laura Marling rightly receives adulation for her Mercury-nominated first record, but tonight she is content to play four songs solo, the first of which, No Hope In The Air, is new. There is a disconcerting rowdiness to her performance that isn't quite natural, the crowd roaring back delicate lyrics with endearing devotion, but stealing poise from them simultaneously. She is demanded back for an encore of My Manic & I, which has no chorus but becomes a terrace chant regardless. Well, it is Christmas.

Johnny Flynn manages to round the night up in jolly fashion, his boyish good looks and regular changing of instruments keeping the hordes swaying until the early hours. Next year could see one or more of these acts penetrating the mainstream, but for now, those present are glad to be in on the secret.