This is what life is about. Crushed between the sweaty bodies aggressively shouting at you, deafened by the apocalyptic fuzz, in the dark. "this could be the last half hour of your life". The singer cried. And I believed it could well have been.

To start from the beginning, I turned up at the Barfly in Brighton to set up my recording equipment (I do a podcast of live Brighton music, don't you know?) last Wednesday. I saw a rabble of Goths and rockers smoking at the stage door. I said hi to Mama Hoochie Bang!, and was introduced to a man with a paper bag on his head. "Hi… I'm Guy" he said in a quiet, calm voice. I was informed that the peculiar head gear was some kind of protection from nanobots that had been released into the atmosphere by the government to control the minds of the public… the rest of the band were nonchalantly polite and I left to have a quick chat with the soundman.

After a few swift pints at a local pub with the boys from MHB!, it was show time!

The doors opened to an expectant crowd of music lovers.

Mama Hoochie Bang! strolled on stage and started to play. Their brand of funk rock exploded with energy, with crisp vocals soaring over the mix of heavy rhythms and grinding funk bass. They dropped the f-bomb slap band into every ear and rocked every riff. Every track had the heavy scent of Blues and Jack Daniels with the overpowering stench of funk.

Penny Motel is a 3 piece comprising of Parisian chantress Estelle, Pearl the drummer with foxy knee high boots and Lionel, their understated guitarist. They played a hypnotic psychedelic clash of metallic riffs and ethereal vocals with stabs of screams.

The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster crawled onto the stage like a wild animal stalking its prey. Knight was transformed from the docile, polite gent to the apocalyptic preacherman. The band beat their instruments into submission and spewing surf and psychobilly riffs from their bleeding fingers with nihilistic fervour. The strobe lights intermittent flashes showed up the bands contorted form.

The audience had been worked into a frenzied, sweaty congregation, possessed by the evil spirit of the music. Hypnotised by this aural assault. It really could have been the last half hour of our lives, the Bomb could have been dropped, Doomsday could have been looming, Armageddon grasping every soul in the room, and this was the Final Judgement.

No encore and the crowd cried out for more.