I feel sorry for Picture Books In Winter. Playing mid-bill, their wholesome rock outs seem bland by comparison, a slice of bread between jam and diamonds. They jitter, jerk at tangents, the violin adds a lot, but it’s not enough. Rewind an hour. Them Squirrels are getting revelatory. Only a few gigs old, these local sociopaths are already a knotty mess of guitar awkwardness and unwise time signatures, fed through a bewildering array of semi-sentient effects gizmos. Such is their winning Frankensteinian approach to fret-tapping post rock tricksiness, the only disappointing moment is one weirdly conventional 90s slacker rock song. Stamp it out, and skip to the last: ten minutes and at least three sections of snarling noise, thudding distortobeats and full on amp and strobe abuse. Extraordinary.

Micachu looks so much like Micachu it’s bizarre. Like a magazine page come to life, and barely bigger. Her trademark ultra-lovable squishy face runs through a whole bookfull of odd expressions, her mouth constantly trying to escape her phizzog; thankfully the actual tunes bear this charismatic weight nicely, and dish up their own treats. The music of Micachu is a lesson in wrenching life from the limited: all instruments small, home modified, pieces missing, all songs bold and anxious and out there. Tonight’s set is equal parts clattering racket, guitar and yelping nudged sideways by stabs of keyboard and cowbell, and ghostly sketches, skeletal motifs looped and held up to the light. It’s alien lo-fi, thrillingly influenced by modern pop and R&B, and a refusal to be hamstrung by a lack of anything. It’s all the unloved, wonky bits of life and music stitched together, because they can. It’s a tiny woman and her two mates, held together by string and beer bottles, and it’s great.