The syncopated rhythm of stamping feet grows louder from behind huge beautiful, glistening bronzed drapes. A mysterious hunched figure in a goth-black leather coat boldly enters, followed by four more stompers stalking the stage in a fragmented Doc Martens line-dance. Stumbling, swaggering and circling, eventually the five women convene to collect hand bells which they play hypnotically with rock-n-roll flair – they sing and their tribal dance creates its own soundtrack.

Before the experience can feel monotonous, they suddenly pull down the drapes – the mise-en-scène wiped clean. Jingling and stumbling in darkness. The audience catches glimpses of the space as lamps are wheeled around, exposing lighting and cabling gathered like vines. Here, the technical equipment joins the music as choreography beyond human physicality.
The bells crescendo ethereally and the audience is blinded by close, warm light – have we died? The idiosyncratic and incoherent combination of forms has been performed with such swagger and visual flair that it feels joyous, enticing and exhilarating.