With a bill only rivalled by Lewis versus Holyfield circa ’99 for heaviness, combined with a palpable air of the impending arrival of The Noise, tonight’s punch-in-the-ear feast boasts a veritable banquet unrivalled in months for all fans of the bludgeon-end of rock. New earplugs purchased and refreshments swiftly guzzled from the terrifying local, battle takes place on a frosty Sunday in North London.

Hey Colossus step onto the Luminaire stage just gone eight and launch headlong at their targets with a delightful brand of witness-silencing cacophony; a textural wall of cranium-buoying riffs. Each relentless aural intrusion incites a generous explosion from below the stage, or the earth, or both as they reconfigure all the finer points of Hawkwind and Sabbath, matched with the fastidious accuracy of Can. Hey Colossus possess riffs baked freshly in the canteen of Hades, gleefully competent of recreating the big bangs of Hiroshima or creation simultaneously.

'Horsehead', live, is a fast and frenzied tune-come-roadside-accosting, complete with bellowing stage-front vocals to his undefined foe, leading to 'Take It': a mammoth post-hardcore riff layered heartily with brutal feedback from towering bassist Joe. 'Europa' ends the set, building incessantly around an air of menace, giving way at the last to tornado raids from the steaming assembly of instruments.

This band is who you want playing in the supermarket when you finally lose it and loot and destroy the place to your heart’s content, while shouting along with them until your lungs burst and your ears pathetically plead your head for mercy.

Lords canter up next, regaling the now more-amply assembled throng with loose tales of noise culture quirkiness. The linchpin for the Lords sound seems to be the wind-him-up-and-watch-him-go drummer, capable in skewed, blues-tinged freshness. There is less meat than the others sharing the bill, yet to compensate the vegetables have turned in to avant-garde illustrations and are singing songs to a backdrop of tilted blues screech and rifle fire.

The drummer frequently ploughs ahead in a solitary direction, before interjecting unexpected Beefheart beats as the guitars spiral away. While they make an impressive-enough racket, those in the know are frankly waiting for Todd, and the last few numbers run in much the same vein as their predecessors.

From the very get-go, Todd move as a one single smashed unit, churning out unforgiving riffs and doom laden wares from their ear-chewing Purity Pledge album. Beginning with 'Butler's Portion', they push to the extremes of heavy with added guitar shrieks intermittently piercing the weighty air. These are as close to aural smash-and-grabs as seems likely or even possible with drums relentlessly battered with a feverish delight.

Todd sway between rhythm-driven traditional rock and seething, ultra-fast blasts completed by Craig Clouse’s vocal growling a la Carcass. 'Miss Longhornspeedway' cuts a ferocious live figure, with Craig launching himself at the crowd several times prior to tacking the guitarist to the floor in front of the stage. And that’s your lot; they walk away, job done. A damaging end results from a truly bruising and effective aggression.

So to Part Chimp, south London’s purveyors of swelling, implausible noise. Set opener 'Bakahatsu' leads to instant action, a super-charged instrumental that also opens Chimp’s latest album, I Am Come. This gambit soars for as long as it takes for audience acquiescence to be achieved, and then, one after the other, their songs are played out like as many crushing headshots being delivered to a by now battle-ready pugilist of a crowd. 'B1', from debut album Chart Pimp, is given a welcome airing, still containing the necessaries to carry out a sneak attack, LEAD-PIPE STYLE, Timm Chimp on vocals struggling to bawl his life at his microphone throughout.

Another instrumental, 'Doctor Horse (part 2)', sees the band set the bar of seemingly unsustainable volume yet higher, as the continual thuggish chugging continues unabated. '30 Gabillion People' proves a true highlight, staggering back and forth with an abusive cocksure confidence, before Jon on drums has chance to go apoplectic with the sticks and singing is barely audible, even if it is only the constantly hollered refrain: "thirty billion people". Leaving a blowsy crowd, it’s hard to imagine a more undeniable and literally terrific racket without falling foul of a combine harvester.

Ultimately, tonight is a timely body blow; a succession of peaks layered upon scolding riff-lead peaks. Leaving feels a little like you’ve spent all day watching old WWF Wrestlemania videos when your friend calls to tell you you’ve won the lottery - you are forced to tell him he is an idiot, firstly because he probably is, and secondly, you tell him you’ve already seen enough triumph for today, thank you very much. Yep, tonight is just like that.