In a flash of purple haze I'm fifteen again.

Descending the stairs into Peckham Audio, the combination of DJ Matt Priory and the heavy lilac lighting tinting every nook and cranny of the room takes you back to the heady days of underage clubbing and provincial ecstasy. The high raised stage and deep audience pit, flanked by the kind of railed balcony you'd associate with Barcelona's fifth most happening nightery, feels at odds with the expectation that is brewing for Dash The Henge's first birthday bash.

Formed four years ago by Nathan Saoudi of Fat White Family and Tim Harper of FreakFreak, they've become known for their championing of the unexpected and the brave, with the billing for the evening staying true to this reputation. Their history of in-store matinees and memorable events precedes them, with expectations high amongst the young crowd. I share a cigarette with a particularly bright eyed young French man, currently visiting his Goldsmith's attending cousin, who has thrice frequented The Windmill as he enjoys his fourth day in the city. Despite his relative freshness, he already knows tonight is set to go a step beyond the usual South London experience.

Openers Ringards have been doing the rounds since 2017, with a burgeoning reputation and momentum thanks in no small part to the support of Dash the Henge and other South London institutions. Adorning a surprisingly fetching deflated life jacket, frontman Enzo Salinie’s skittish intensity helps create a dystopian Barbie type atmosphere that is instantly endearing. Such energy can sometimes be used as cover for lackluster songs. This is certainly not the case with Ringards, as they whistle through a set of sticky melodies adorned over Warmduscher-esque riffs (can we say that now? Is that allowed?).

Up next is Sweat, and they're bringing mesh back. Big eighties production is combined with treated vocals that wouldn't sound out of place on a Yung Lean record. It's bombastic, unashamed, and something fresh from the chugging bass lines and talk speak vocals that lurk round every South London corner. This fails to tickle the fancy of the student-majority crowd however, and the set ends with the feeling of right band, wrong night.

Opus Kink inevitably face no such issues. You know exactly what to expect, and yet every time they continue to surpass expectations. Angus Rodgers demands your attention, his manic glare punctuating every jazz punk beat that merits and receives a raucous audience response. It's unnerving, triumphant, and celebratory, echoing the best gigs where you no longer feel you are watching a band and instead are having your own very merry evening curated by masters of their craft. Pretension is left at the door. Everyone packed into the cramped purple basement has parked their ego for the evening. As I lay in the pit, being softly cradled by Rodgers amidst the Gregorian chanting of 1:18, I catch sight of the young French artist, panting and beaming at the side. He knows he's seen something quite special.

With a full UK tour on its marks and about to get set, it would be very silly to miss these kings of chaotic celebration.