Whoever put this line up together has been pretty shrewd. There's something here for every Mastodon fan as an apéritif before the main course; could the night match my bloated expectations?

Red Fang are the ideal men to agitate the horde and get things moving with their infectious stoner rock. Every song is a compendium of Jurassic riffs; 'Throw Up', for one, is a red-blooded stomp worthy of doom greatness. They are snare-tight, but there isn't the demanding phrenic technicality of those that follow. Manchester just lets its neck muscles do the hard yards, and by the time we get to 'Good to Die', all bars have been deserted and the crowd response is as loud as I've heard for an opener.

If the 'Fang succeed through head-nodding communion, The Dillinger Escape Plan do so by relentless battery. It takes a couple of tracks for their radical assault to engage: early doors, the mix is a little muddy and the impact relies on the brute physicality pouring from the stage. Once this is overcome, I'm drawn into the boiling maelstrom. 'Farewell, Mona Lisa' inflicts ataxia upon the pit, then pummels its way to the back of the venue. Jeff Tuttle's hands are just a blur on the fretboard, but the uneasy skronk he blares out is by no means random; it's honed to a sharp edge. To ease back on the hail of adjectives, a visual representation of the performance would look a little like this.

Mastodon have both Cro-Magnon chug and progressive intricacy in spades, and tonight they don't let up with the density to allow us to catch breath. 'Dry Bone Valley' and 'Black Tongue' are opening battle cries leading a charge into the uncompromising minefield that is the Mastodon back catalogue. The whole thing is a fucking walloping trip, but if I must pick out towering peaks, I don't think I've ever borne witness to anything as heavy as this evening's roaring rendition of 'Circle of Cysquatch'; it is sweet, sweet pain. 'Sleeping Giant' packs a huge punch, the leaden push of the verses driving a gale from the speakers.

Troy Sanders' mystical low-end explorations, Brent Hinds' piratical tapestry and Bill Kelliher's poker-faced psychedelic genius; Brann Dailor spins a consummate web bonding all these delirious elements together. 'Blood and Thunder' smashes the place up, before members of all three bands take the stage to send 'Creature Lives' into singalong orbit. 90 minutes, 23 songs through, 1500 go apeshit, screaming themselves hoarse for a further blitzing.

Unforgettable. Three great performances and a window into the future for under 20 quid. Anyone complaining about the state of guitar music should go heavy or go home, back to their crackerjack bands.