Grabba Grabba Tape smell bad. No, reek. “On this tour, our costumes have not been washed!” Lol-OH!-Vot confesses jovially in adorably stilted Spanglish. “I am sorries. Is bad for you, think how for me!” His mouth gurns beneath the fuscia lycra like the movements of one of those weird rubber massage things department stores try to sell you; saliva seeps through the shiny elastane into a neat little oval stain that expands with each syllable. It can’t be nice for him. It’s not very nice for me. He manages to drink a bottle of Carlsberg through the mesh, though. “Show off!” someone shouts.

But. You don’t really care about the nausea when you’re faced with the Madrid duo shrinkwrapped into hot pink catsuits frilled with matted white fur, looking like jelly n’ ice cream and spazzing onto two tiers of keys, barking into vocoders about 1) Magic dolphins (they carry children through the seas to the promised land) and 2) Hamsters, which are superior to rats, and of course “we are not rats, we are HAMP-STAIIRRS!” Stories of sparkly sea creatures and fuzzy rodents seem pretty innocent and chocolate-y, however, for a band who’ve taped the effigy of an inverted crucifix to the blood red wall behind them and choose Satan over God because Satan is groovy and celebrates “dark love and stuff.” Lol stands akimbo on his kit, re-capturing the upside-down cross with his sticks before wrestling each crowd member into a pungent Chewbacca-hug. Meanwhile, their songs are banana splits of tinselled tinnitus and bastardised beats – strawberry splurges of keyboard are like a hundred chipmunks laughing scornfully in your face whilst the clattering junkshop drums sound far too strong and scary for a bloke wearing what is, essentially, a big girly leotard with extensions.

Too endearing to be terrifying, too beastly to be cute, Grabba Grabba Tape are a mangle of pre-school nightmares with gooey melodies, gunky gack attacks with Hubba Bubba and baby-sized hands. They’re also big globs of rotting sweat with balaclava faces; indeterminate, blank and potentially petrifying. If you were five years old and you met one of these dudes at a holiday camp you’d be over the moon with dribbling Willy Wonka happiness because they’d be way better than anything your mates’ imaginary friends could think up and because if you licked one of them it would probably taste of cherry cola and coconut and have American cream soda for brains. If you were about sixty, however, you’d start trembling that now you were finally going mad and these minions of Hell had risen up from the flaming jaws of a sulphur underworld to punish you for all your sins and transport you to a purgatory of industrial beep-noise and computerised migraines, all whilst one of them fixed you with his vacant non-expression and the other used your spinal cord as a xylophone.

As it is, I’m somewhere in the middle; too old to think they’re all about unicorns with rainbow manes and glitter tails and basically just lifesized Jelly Babies; too young to be flailing around for my glasses in a bid to locate the quickest route OUT OF HERE. I’m sixty-percent googly-eyed, thirty-percent quivering with indistinct fear and ten-percent gagging for oxygen. Being as this is pretty much how I always feel when enjoying myself (‘drunk’), we can thus deduce that Grabba Grabba Tape are, in short, like feeling euphoric, then feeling marginally disturbed, then being ever so slightly on the verge of vomiting. Yay!