A chance to reignite the flame of the weekend, so sincerely pissed on after a Monday morning in the office, is what we come for this evening. We make the monumental trek from the comparatively palatial DiS offices’ in the W2 postal code to E2’s Brick Lane where the word palatial doesn’t even exist. But with every car-crash ‘LDN’ fashion victim we pass, the smile adorning our faces grows. Silver leggings with neon green football socks pulled to the knee, children’s sunglasses adorning the face of 20-something males and pink ‘bum bags’ can all be witnessed on these streets – tourists are actually trying to take holiday snaps whilst waiting at the zebra crossing. We are already entertained.

As we arrive our openers for the evening mix their musical influences like said ‘Hoxton massive’ mix their fashions. It doesn’t reeeaaally work. The one-moment psychedelic rock, next-moment blues lick Zutons-like ska explosion that is Bastila are an energetic ball of proficient musicianship which lacks the foundational requirement of good songs and melodies. But not to worry: what they lack, Scanners make up for in abundance. It’s not often that you find a group who’ve released an album and built a following in the US before breaking into their British homeland. But for Scanners it’s just a matter of time. For their songs contain well-crafted, dark and haunting melodies that float in an air of delicate confrontation. With reckless abandon, Scanners masterfully blend moments of L7’s distortion with the pop sensibilities of Elastica. The crowd has arrived early to witness this. Front woman Sarah Daly exudes a brand of angst not dissimilar to an angelic PJ Harvey suffering from a bipolar disorder. Deep down we know she isn’t as scary in real life, but as she spits out vocals akin to Donita Sparks and holds her hands on the top her head, as if out of desperation, we can’t be quite so sure. Filling the entire room with the dirty angular synth sounds of ‘Raw’ the band ooze filth and sexual rawk.

Monday morning seems like a faded memory already.

I could lose it right now in the very manner I have before on a debauched Friday night at 93 Feet East to the fabulous, foot-stomping single 'Lowlife'. With hook to die for it’s rightfully rewarded with a response so vocal we question if this audience is actually aware they are only the support band. The solid melody and vocal harmonies displayed on ‘In My Dreams’ are electrifyingly rejuvenating and their juxtaposition with Daly’s guttural vocal, which moulds into Gollum riding a witches broomstick by the third verse, are hauntingly infectious. Rapturous, again, is the applause. They’ll be back soon, as headliners.

But it’s on swiftly to the bouncing off the walls, speaker clambering fun of The Blood Arm. We’ve been warned of their moves – they have them down to a fine art – but even so they don’t disappoint. This crowd, already whipped into a frenzy, are pumping fists with orgasmic aplomb from the off. Even though it’s only two-thirds full in here, Nathaniel Fregoso and his merry band make it feel like a sold-out arena – this jaunty piano-led indie-pop sound of theirs is built for having fun. And as Fregoso darts in and out of the crowd during ‘Bottom Below’ and ‘Do I Have Your Attention?’, he quickly holds them captive, eating from his hand. He abuses this on next song ‘Angela’ by seating the audience on this grubby floor and using the laps of two fresh-faced young girls as a pillow. They blush in the traditional English manner, like any young lady with a sweaty yank lying in their crotch should. But no sooner has he molested us that we find ourselves pogo-ing to the angular lad-about-town indie-pop perfection of 'Suspicious Character'. Fregoso spits the line “Come back to my apartment and I'll show you what it’s for" like the sleazy sexual deviant he clearly is. The Blood Arm are a great live band with lead in their pencil. Some guy in the audience named Paul clearly thinks so as he removes his shirt and waywardly projects it into the air.

Fregoso really wishes he were Iggy Pop, though, and during set closer ‘PS I Love You But I Don’t Miss You’ the audience appear to be just waiting for that nod to join him on stage. When it comes, they smile. But Fregoso has far loftier ideas: before the song is out we find him on the other side of the room dancing on the bar before performing a party piece of wrapping his lips around the Grolsch tap. The barman appears to find it a lot less humorous than we, stood the other side of the bar, do. You’d be hard pressed to find a more entertaining Monday night.