“I am a Tyrannosaurus Rex!” a grown man in his underwear exclaims, pacing back and forth like a reptile on hot coals, armed only with a bass guitar. Playing into the sizeable gap of the terror zone between the stage and the audience, Marconi’s Voodoo grab you by the throat and don’t let you go until the last note of every song has rung out. Existing in the shadowy underworld of sleaze and beauty, they could easily move into soundtracks for the kind of films where heroes are also villains, people dress in leather and it pisses down all the time.

The protracted theatrics are a waste of time - and it’s as if they’re embarrassed by how good their music actually is, hiding behind a jokers’ façade when really they should be balanced on the edge of the stage, staring everyone out.

Although largely instrumental, each song is distinctly different and delivered with a sucker-punch straight to your stomach - Marconi’s Voodoo are the musical equivalent of instantaneously consuming a packet of ProPlus, downed with a crate of Red Bull. Nobody will be sleeping through their set, either here in the warmth and darkness of the Point or half a mile down the road in suburban bedrooms. And that, we guess, is the idea.

Ben Johncock