Just what is it with Birmingham-based promoters Capsule? Despite consistently bringing us some of the most mind-stirring musical progressives on the world circuit month in month out, not to mention their sterling work in putting together the forthcoming Supersonic spectacular this July (Dalek, Jesu, Aereogramme and Merzbow anyone?), they also appear to gain some sort of sadistic delight in slipping in all manner of oddballs, freaks and general musical eccentrics to their line-ups as well – see last month's Plot To Blow… and Noise Noise Allure pairing!

So while most of us had strolled along to this gig to have our minds utterly transformed by an ultra cool ‘ex-members-of’ band – namely These Arms Are Snakes - we weren’t quite so prepared to have it first set upon by the mangled schizoid lunacy of Mae Shi and fellow LA hipsters Rapider Than Horse Power! Jeez... even their names give me a headache!

Not that I should have much reason to complain. While initial glances assumed RTHP to be your archetypal US college rock geeks (replete with overly-floppy fringes and thick rimmed glasses) their frontman however clearly refuses to be typecast quite so easily. With his weird rap-grunt-barks and dance moves that come off like Jack Black impersonating Michael Jackson at The Office party this guy is clearly from a different planet altogether, slamming his feet and flapping his arms about as if surrounded by a swarm of invisible killer bees. Course, to him he might well be. To us he’s Uncle Knobhead after a few too many Tetleys. But while he may be completely oblivious to his dancefloor-destroying moves it’s still a largely entertaining stomp that accompanies their funk-noise mash-up disturbingly well.

15 minutes later we return from the bar in the hope that things might return to some semblance of normality, only to find Mae Shi drummer Brad conducting what appears to be a series of painful Yoga stretches at difference points in the room, his eyes vacant with concentration. Oookay. As his cohorts eventually assemble themselves onstage a laptop flickers promisingly in the shadows and their music, predictably erratic, starts to unfold. It’s a captivating spectacle, each member seemingly closing each other off in their own little world, physically cradling and cherishing their instruments like a much-loved childhood toy. Drummer Brad pounds his drums with the bluntest of rhythms, bassist Tim bounds about the stage with a playful smile and as for guitarist / vocalist Jeff well, he’s clearly nuttier than a truckload of Snickers. The rest of the band shyly hide behind similarly joyful grins; the music linked curiously and artistically through their esoteric personalities. Imagine characters from controversial Danish film The Idiots performing live and you seriously wouldn’t be far off!

Quite how These Arms Are Snakes are expected to follow such stupefied lunacy is a marvel in itself, but they do and with considerable aplomb. Indeed, the hype surrounding the Seattle noiseniks seems to have had a domino-like effect as they (ahem) snaked their way around the country, and rightly so. Their performance is nothing short of electrifying and watching vocalist Steve Sneer bolting about the stage, clearly struggling to dodge the post-Botch bullets of crushed melody and wayward syncopation, it’s a sight that roots you right to the spot. This is a man intoxicated by the music , inebriated to the point of oblivion – he’s staggering around the stage sweat literally dripping off his nose and chin – you think he’s about to collapse, then as he makes a few last faltering steps he slowly lowers the mic into his mouth and the music connects to his body, sparking a violent jolt that sets him dancing once more.

Towards the end of the set, he staggers off the back of the stage emerging a few minutes later clutching a rather long set of ladders. He rests them on the overhead beam and climbs to the top, panting breathlessly. As the righteously melodic interplay continues beneath him he bawls out his mono-tone bluster, convulsing with agitation, still unable to stop his body jerking and spasming to their highly-strung racket. As such, it’s an undeniable climax to an astoundingly energetic performance that leaves our minds in tatters but our hearts burning with pride.