Wolfman, aka east Londoner Peter Wolfe, calls himself a "rock poet", an oxymoron responsible for crimes against both rock and poetry. Add to the mix Pete Doherty, the Libertines singer jailed for burgling his own guitarist's flat, and you have a recipe for pop disaster.

The reality, though, fell far short of the worst-case scenario. What unfolded was hard to classify as either poetry or rock - it was more a sound clash between two nocturnal characters who probably shrivel in daylight and, perversely, was better than such a thing had a right to be. It certainly justified the faith shown by the surprisingly young girls who traipse around after Doherty, a debauched charmer who looks like he could teach Keith Richards a few things.

Wolfman, who did most of the set alone, was a cadaverous, black-robed specimen who lived up to his nickname "the undertaker". If he was an hour late stumbling on stage, it was probably because he had been enjoying a midnight amble through a cemetery. His was a babble of teen-shock imagery that also fashionably namechecked Marvin Gaye and Robert De Niro.

But it ain't what the Wolf did, it was the way that he did it. The words came in a screechy torrent - half rapping, half singing - punctuated by howls so heartfelt his black hat trembled. His band banged out an angular, Wire-ish backbeat as Wolf hurled himself into the crowd.

When Doherty arrived for the last two numbers, the mood changed from repelled fascination to adoration. Cameras were whipped out to capture him mumbling through the unexpectedly pretty single he wrote with Wolfman, For Lovers. He indisputably had something; perhaps it was cheekbones, perhaps an otherworldly slinkiness, but whatever it was, his 10 minutes - during which Wolfman pogoed and howled - were the blazing highlight. A shambolic hybrid, and that's meant in the best possible way.