There’s something orgasmically, ritualistically unhinged about Jarcrew, as if they’ve been asleep under a rock for so long (approximately since c.1974,) that rock is now part of their bloodstream. They play with such an eye-widening, knee-twitching energy that you wouldn’t be surprised if they ate their instruments after playing them. The crazy Welshmen jerk between electro-metal, math-rock, glam-core, who-knows-what, possess bona fide tuneage in the form of ‘Paris & The New Math’; cowbell-fuelled funky punk that would make The Rapture piss themselves, stratospheric riffery that could bring Hawkwind to their knees and, well, just about everything in between. They’re hyperactive and all, the vocalist on more than one occasion getting down from the stage to literally scream in people’s faces, flail his arms in front of them and, at the tail end of their set, to climb up a corner of the venue’s walls towards a huge speaker just to make the feedback sound better. As you may have guessed by now, Jarcrew ROCK & RULE. We love them now that they’ve sunk their teeth in.

If you thought Jarcrew were primitive, then check out Mínus, who make QOTSA look like NASA. Mínus have trouble following Jarcrew, but they give it a bloody good try – and a noisy one at that. Before the initial opening wall of distortion has switched to power-chord attacks, the singer - in the fashion of the bastard child of Iggy and Dave Lee Roth - pretends to masturbate on both the mic-stand and the microphone, the band then grabs a chisel and begin to aurally chip away at your skull with their sweaty, tattooed arms. For the next song, before the initial opening wall of distortion has switched to power-chord attacks, the singer, in the fashion of the bastard child of Iggy and Dave Lee Roth, pretends to masturbate on both the mic-stand and the microphone as the band then grab a chisel and begin to aurally chip away at your skull with their sweaty, tattooed arms. The singer then plays a drum solo on the bassist’s back and, in the next song he, in the fashion of the bastard child of Iggy and Dave Lee Roth, pretends to masturbate on both the mic-stand and the microphone as the band then grab a chisel and begin to aurally chip away at your skull with their sweaty, tattooed arms. You get the point. On invention terms, it’s not much, but on rock terms it’s enough.

Then there’s Million Dead, the dark lords of hardcore extremism arrive with a scratchy recording rotating behind them, and a preacher’s tale of “a train to Hell” – no prizes for guessing which tune they begin with (although they have re-titled it ‘Staring At Bastards On The Bus’). With that impassioned ditty their legend is already sealed, and with second song ‘Charlie and The Propaganda Myth Machine’ it is confirmed. Emo may have been a dirty word since more than a handful of kids knew about it and came to mean rolling about screaming tear-stained diary extracts, but if it does mean passionate, articulate, thoroughly rockin’ tunes about yetis, the Bee Gees and how Roald Dahl novels have sinister political undertones, then Million Dead apply completely. And we love them for it. “Please buy our merch because we’re capitalist c*nts” says the singer, who then advertises single ‘I Am The Party’ as being out tomorrow morning and wails the words amongst the throng of the pit. He also later regrets standing at the lip of the stage during what is now known as ‘Tearing The Sack’ and, with arms aloft, letting moshers reach up and touch him (according to him, it was “too Bono”). They end with ‘Rise & Fall’, in which halfway through, the entire band stops and, after a few seconds of silence, the bassist and guitarist let out an almighty riff that you could clean your nails with. As the hair flies about, the song spins round the place and punters grow even more hysteric, it’s no wonder they’re so worshipped already. This may be the last time that we’ll be able to touch the hems of their trousers so we recommend you start caring. Now.