To the Camden Palace for my first Heavy Metal rock festival. Going by the adage that maximum interest is at the point of maximum contrast, this entry refuses to be avoided.

A magazine that does not yet exist, Plan B, contacted me. "Go forth and write about the Stylish Satanic Metal band, Ackercocke. We have chosen you for this exploit, partly because you are amusingly related to them in a Rock Family Tree way (of which more below), but mostly because, like you, they stand out by wearing nice suits. You will be on the guest list for the festival they're playing. Do not expect to be paid".

I sigh ungraciously at this latter caveat, but can't think of a reason to refuse. After all, I've never been to a heavy metal festival before, and this one is only a fifteen minute tube journey away. I patch together my wretched frame and journey to Mornington Crescent, possibly the only London Underground station to be saved from closure by a Radio 4 comedy show, "I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue".

Queuing around the block are hordes of Henry Ford's loose children. Dressed in any colour, as long as it's black. I conduct the interview with the band first, in a pub across the road. Kindly granting me a portion of their time before a proper journalist arrives, I speak to Mr Jason Mendonca and Mr David Gray. When I was touring in the band Orlando, they were among our hired hands. Jason was the guitar tech, and David was the drummer. In Ackercocke, the former sings, the latter drums. And presumably now curses the head-wobbling singer-songwriter who has stolen his name.

Their official press release contains spelling mistakes and gets the band roles mixed up. An accompanying biography, by the band themselves, is better written and better spelt. I ask about the tacky t-shirts, ringtones and mobile phone "wallpaper" catalogue that rudely interrupts their otherwise beautifully designed CD booklet (created, Mr Gray says, by the man behind the sleeve to Japan's Tin Drum album). They admit the ringtones are nothing to do with them, but par for the course these days, and a depressingly important source of revenue to boot.

When the next proper, professional rock writer arrives, from some glossy heavy metal magazine or other, I can't resist placing my MiniDisc recorder (androgynously invisible controls) next to hers (voluptuous, moulded controls) on the table, to see if they fight, or breed. She is not in the least bit amused. It its palpably obvious I am new to this interviewing racket and refuse to take it seriously.

Which is just as well. I'll never forget an occasion where Mr Momus warned me to never become a journalist – "it means losing a bit of your soul." Advice which I saw repeated earlier this year, amid the barrage of obituaries on Mr Johnny Cash. <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/comment/story/0,3604,1043491,00.html"> A somewhat affected writer recounted how her interview with Mr Cash marked the end of her journalist career</a>, because he had shown her the importance of creating rather than spectating, if that's who you really are. She turned to fiction. Though I expected the article to end "…and I've been starving ever since."

Inside the Camden Palace, the place is rammed full with heavy metal fans, whose appearance is far more varied than I'd previously imagined. More women than you'd think, fewer trolls than you'd think. Quite a lot of virginal, flower-skinned teenage boys, who are presumably to be sacrificed on an altar later. I watch Ackercocke perform, and am surprised to find myself utterly mesmerised by their aural pummelling and growled invocations to The Goat Of Mendes. Although they insist on sporting the type of long hair so beloved of the genre, the suits and waistcoats make all the difference. The performance connects with far more parts of my brain than if they had the standard uniform of leather trousers and t-shirts. Experiencing their set, with all its bowel-quavering frequencies and foundation-shaking noise packaged so stylishly, is the closest I've come to rough sex for some time. Which admittedly rather says more about me than them. Scenes from Dennis Cooper novels, the ones with references to Slayer in them, suggest themselves. I fully understand the appeal of this sort of music, if not the haircuts.

The bands that follow, Nile, Destruction, and Deicide, are dressed entirely traditionally for the genre, and all sound similar to these delicately ignorant ears. I have drunken enough to appreciate their sets, in the same way that I can still stay in a pub if there's a football match on the TV, but it's safe to assume I will not be converting to the heavy metal cause. Still, even I can tell that Ackercocke have honed their sound to a far greater degree than these other bands, as well as honing their appearance. I hereby approve of Ackercocke. Bet they're pleased.

Despite this alien outing, some normal Dickon Edwards things still happen. At one point, a girl with a foreign accent asks to take my photo. We retire to a corridor and it becomes an impromptu Dickon Edwards photo shoot. I have no idea who she is, and she refuses to tell me what the photos are for. This is all in order.

Also, despite the type of occasion, the darkness, the size of the venue and the immense crowd, I still manage to bump into people who know me, albeit whom I haven't seen for some years. Mr Matt Platts, of the band Nightnurse, who is currently performing in a group called <a href="http://www.twisted.org.uk/interlock/standard/standardframe.htm">Interlock.</a> Also, Mr Jonathan Selzer, a music writer who started out interviewing the likes of Talulah Gosh before converting to the heavy metal cause. He now writes for magazines like Terrorizer.

Mr Selzer is at first surprised by my connection to bands like Ackercocke and Nightnurse, but then remarks on how one could play Six Degrees Of Dickon Edwards. My nature is to wander alone like a powdered peripatetic, in and out of scenes and social circles without ever settling down. In this aspect, I am like the 80s TV dog, The Littlest Hobo. In only this aspect.

A few days later. In Archway, an old man with a walking stick notices me as I pass and stares. I am wearing my glasses. A new one for the book:

"Cheer up – you look like Michael Caine."