Come to Dada! It’s surrealist art-rock ahoy as avant-garde collective Warlords Of Pez resurface for one of their intermittent audio/visual assaults on the unsuspecting public. However, such an intro makes the Warlords sound a good deal more sinister than they actually are. Sure, they’ve donned the regulation horror-show masks and liberally sprinkled their set with a slew of spookily atmospheric, haunted-funhouse curios, but really, WOP are a pretty good approximation of what The Residents might have evolved into had they ever ditched the sequencers and become a League Of Gentlemen-like comedy troupe.

For instance, retaining a straight face becomes nigh-on-impossible as soon as you set eyes on the one strategically unmasked member of the band. Dutifully standing stage-right throughout, he wears a makeshift sandwich-board emblazoned with the lyrics of each song, and remains resolutely po-faced despite the unfolding chaos.

Likewise, the X-rated reworking of The Doors’ ‘The End’, and especially the moment when the bloke in the giraffe mask produces a portion of white pudding from a highly suspect pair of bicycle shorts, are played strictly for laughs. Appropriately, the Warlords exit downing cans of Bulmers – they’re crazy Situationists, but all they need are cigarettes and alcohol.

After such a brilliantly unhinged performance, Japanese quintet Mikabomb must not only be wondering whether or not they’re in the right venue, but how on earth they can be expected to follow such madness. Remarkably, they not alone succeed, but eclipse their highly (dis)reputable support act.

Lead by leather-skirt clad, shape-throwing glam diva Mika, the ‘Bomb deliver a supremely melodic collection of glitter-flecked garage-punk, reminiscent of early-’90s Nirvana faves Shonen Knife. Endearingly, Mika even throws in a few words as gaeilge: “A haon, do, tri, ceathaiiiiiiir!” she yells, before the group launch into another blast of funky bass and dirty guitar squall.

Dublin art-freaks incorporating Surrealist motifs and Oriental pop-princesses filtered through a Noo Yawk punk sensibility – it’s the post-modern world, baby. And it rocks.