(Gave this to my editor ages ago and he forgot to put it online so I thought I'd post it here)

In the hipster equivalent to Eastender's Old Vic an event of major scale is occurring on this rainy Monday night. Benjamin John Power is debuting his new material as Blanck Mass for the first time ever live at the intimate venue that is the Shacklewell Arms. Known formerly as one half of Fuck Buttons, his self titled album went down phenomenally when released this summer. Though it's taken a while, the promise of an intensely honed live show including a visual spectacle created by artist and filmmaker Alex Turvey, is probably worth the 6 month wait!

Kicking things off is Factory Floor’s very own Dom Butler, AKA Lo Light, who creates an eclectic sound layering arpeggiator after arpeggiator with some serious kick drums slicing through the mix. He doesn't take his eyes off the litter of wires and dials for a second constantly tweaking and refining his dizzying synths to get the balance right.. One of the songs even gets a bit dancey which is no surprise knowing Butler’s background. It’s great to see such experimental music getting people on their feet, not exactly something that drone music is known for! With such a small venue it is great that there is nothing separating the crowd from the artists; no barrier, no real crew and not even a stage. White noise fills the sound from high whines to low hisses. A very drunk woman takes Dom by surprise, shouting some inaudible praise. He smiles feverishly and continues his technical wizardry; his modesty clearly visible. The sound system rattles under the low synth tones which slowly turn into a distorted bliss. Butler cuts the last song short abruptly and the room is captivated in silence and awe.

The next act, Helm, has some big shoes to fill after the sonic tirade the room experienced from Lo Light. The Birds of Delay man Luke Younger begins with an ominous rumbling drone making the room vibrate so strongly I feel like my voice box begin to implode. The noise grows even denser, more vicious over time. Luke then fades in an ambiguous tangle of vocal samples, the most distinct of which sounding like Alice Glass attacking someone. He continues to spice things up with some bell samples and a noise that sounds like a gale force wind escaping through a crack in the door. His hands carefully poised on an array of gadgets, no sound is introduced too abruptly. The sound constantly evolves seamlessly from jittering sub basses to bell tower clatters. His heavy use of cassettes and an iPod nicely adds contrast to his sustained tones and gives Younger a much wider sonic palette to work with. Things start to accelerate with more rattles and scratches, an urgent bass line and more distorted wails and screams as if this set was composed as a soundtrack for the most horrific and gory B-movie ever seen. The cataclysmic, tortuous vocal samples grow less and less human and more like a robot in distress. To say small children would be in tears by now is by no means off the mark. Taking a minuscule segment of his sound, Younger then loops beyond recognition to something reminiscent of Shlohmo’s 'Trapped In a Burning House' and 'Rough Steez' by Fuck Buttons. It’s almost as if Helm is trying to emulate a laptop dying as this glitchy segment signals the end of what has been a challenging but awesome set.

With what looks like a bottle of wine on the floor for his drink of choice during the gig, Ben Powers gives the crowd a solitary wave. With a quick message to the tech guys all lights are turned off completely so all focus is on the screen projections. From the start Powers’ sound is utterly disorientating beginning with some muttering octaved-up voices. A metal ball floats on screen which doesn't provide me with much more sense of what is happening, safe to say I am utterly bewildered. Maybe galaxies away this is what as known as 'a disco' but closer to home this is sonically and visually ethereal. The orb on screen goes on rotating in a mesmerizing fashion, often changing colour, as Benjamin labours lovingly over his laptop to create a sound equally hypnotizing. Then images of water and hands flicker on screen in a Warhol-esque red and blue colour scheme as the muttering voices are replaced by whirring bass tones and heavily effected fluttering high notes reverberating continuously and compressed to make one dense tonal apocalypse. Unlike anything I have seen before this sensual overload is beyond any mad vision experienced in dreams. Every song is given its own separate visual identity and colours making this gig as much an installation art work as a concert; here the visuals are not just an addition but an integral part of the set complementing Powers’ massive sounds brilliantly. With the lime light firmly shifted on the screen, Ben works furiously on his warped and incomprehensible textures, it is apparent that this has been vigorously rehearsed. No sound is left to stagnate or loop for too long before it is either discarded or morphed to some new level. A sombre track triggers a haunting visual of green and black things that look like they are blowing in the wind. I say things as, much like Blanck Mass' music, the source material is distorted beyond recognition into some haunting two-tone visual.

After a torrent of heavy drones, Ben cuts back to some soft arpeggios and glitchy electronic descants backed by a colourful screen much like the pastel palette of Animal Collective's ‘My Girls’ video. A handful of crowd members seem utterly possessed by the music as if their subconscious is telling them to pulsate and sway with the other-worldly soundscapes. The metal orb on screen now resembles a four legged animal of some sort in mid-leap with its shape changing at a snail’s pace until the being is closer to a peacock than a deer. Powers then takes a surreal turn into some classically-inspired piano while some ear splitting feedback fills the room. A trance-like kaleidoscope of oranges and blues floods the venue as Ben cracks out a funky synth groove. Before long shuddering basses and klaxons go and rain on the happy arp’s parade and sudden seizure-inducing flashes of white appear on screen. Ben takes hold of a mic and let's out an ominous growl, going from gut wrenching low to piercing high with the turn of a dial on an effects box, the sonic vibrations coursing through every wall and inch of floor. It’s difficult to believe I am at a concert and not in some form of experimental cinema.