I'm watching a man in an oversized red-and-white top hat, pulled down over his head with eyeholes cut into it, scream down a microphone.

"AAAADDDAAAT!!"

Gulpepsh stops for a moment, picks up a glass of water, and drinks, pressing the microphone against his throat, so we can all hear the gulp, gulp, gulp sounds. Then, beats start happening. Heavy bass drum sounds and harsh, trebly "PSSHT" type snare. It builds and builds, stuttering and shaking, until a capella broken beats lie in pieces around the floor-to-ceiling PA system. There's an enjoyable oddness in watching a totally weird top hat throat-drum man perform tricksy vocal contortions.

Welcome to the Adaadat Records party, a marathon all-nighter in darkest South London with no less than 14 back-to-back performances from the label's wonderfully nuts roster of artists. With so many varied and distinct takes on ear-bleeding noise and chaotic laptop battering going on, it's hard to keep track of exactly who's who, but I try my best, valiantly sacrificing my eardrums (and all sense of sense) in the name of investigative music journalism.

Silverlink are an odd-couple pairing: Alex Silverlink is a towering figure with long hair and shades, lengthy arms outstretched above his head as he booms incoherent whiteboy ragga into the mic and bounces on the spot to a choppy, varied backing of drum tracks and synth. Max Tundra is in charge of vibrato Prince-style vocal acrobatics and dancing like a hippy standing on the roof of a car at a 1960's LA beach party. He twitches, squeals, minces around, and plays improvised octaves on a tiny keyboard. It's an absorbing spectacle.

Cutting Pink With Knives are an extreme grindcore band with a knack of starting a riot. The vocalist screams like he's trying to get his throat out of his neck; the guitar player jerks and flails and gets caught up the bouncing, shrieking melee of enthusiastic noise boys. One second there's a crowd there, the next the room seems empty as the space is suddenly changed by thrashing bodies tumbling everywhere. The music is violent, punishing noise, guitar and clanging beats rasping against spidery bass. Then, as suddenly as they started, it's over.

Germlin takes the stage like an A.D.D. grasshopper in a cap and homemade T-shirt. He bares his teeth and punches the air gleefully; dancing, bouncing, screaming along to the joyful noise of smashed up, screwed up, rumpled, knackered, fucked cartoon mashups. He's the hi-speed boywonder prodigy of the Adaadat gang, serving up jagged rackets dusted with his maniacal sense of fun and a sucrose pop/noise sensibility. Things go a bit awry with a glitching laptop and a few technical problems, but this music is irrepressible.

Doddodo

Doddodo creeps onto the stage grinning, shaking her fingers at the crowd like a child playing at cursing somebody on halloween, hair tied up in bunches and covered in facepaint, growling and muttering and chattering over distorted twitchbeats and looped chanting; out of time rusted drum loops grate against A-B-C-simple keyboard sounds, Chinese folk samples and all manner of pseudo-hip-hop strangeness. Beep-pop meltdown occurs in my brain. I fucking love it.

There are few more mystifying spectacles than watching a room full of people pogo and scream along to gabba while the man on the the stage (the inscrutable DJ Scotch Egg) sits and plays on his old-school, brick-sized Gameboy. Weird postmodern performance art? The death of live music? Headache-inducing migraine-core of the highest order? Yes, yes, and yes. But who cares?! Dancedancedance. Because it's fucking brilliant and sends cartoon sparks teeming through my brain. There is so much fun jammed into this almost unlistenable racket that I can't help but grin all over my exhausted face.

By this time, my temples are caving in and my eyes are heavy and my feet are aching and I want to stay but I can't. But there'll be other times to discover Ove Naxx, Piss Tank and Ommm... Adaadat is a self-contained universe of its own, and tonight is only my first step inside.