FatCat records, Brighton’s finest venerable left-field indie institution, have been facilitating their Furballs sessions in the bohemian seaside enclave of Brighton for a while now. These aren’t just ‘gigs’ though. There are visuals, spoken work interludes and laudable attempts to make The Freebutt – a grim, uninviting venue at the best of times that inexplicably seems to have the monopoly on the best bands that pass through town- look welcoming via the use of kitsch empheria. Then there’s the music which showcases up and coming talents with established alternative acts.

In keeping with the off-the-cuff vibe that characterises a Furballs throw down, Thomas House, former front man of soulful math-rockers Charlottefield, played an impromptu set. Houses’ set was terse and tense un-easy listening like Chavez unplugged. Ugly in a very beautiful sort of way. Representing the evening’s fresh talent were Brighton hipsters, Cold Pumas. Alan McGee has championed them and on the day of this show, The Guardian posted one of their songs on their music blog. It’s easy to see why they’re causing something of a stir. Their guitarist is resplendent in tapered trousers complimented by an exquisite pair of desert boots. Their singing drummer sports the type of moustache beloved of Pitchfork bloggers and pedophiles alike. Enough about the really important stuff, what about the music? Simply put, even the utterly woeful PA system of the ‘butt couldn’t detract from Cold Pumas’ vicious, infectious sonic snarl. This is day-glo, psychedelic flower-punk, all tribal beats and off kilter harmonies. Imagine Shellac with a sense of fun and you’re nearly there. Cold Pumas are neither subtle nor clever and it works just fine for now. It’s a testament to how spot-on FatCat can get it when Cold Pumas are followed and complimented by the wildly different Alexander Tucker.

Tucker’s music is suffused with integrity and intelligence but is never gratingly high-brow – he loops his cello and the riffs he pulls off sound like Kim Thayil’s. A one man wall of sound, Tucker’s guitars and cello conspire to synapses soothing heights as his spiritual incantations ricochet around the venue and through your cranium. It’s transcendental, for sure, and by the time he plays ‘Veins to the Sky’ the hairs on the back of my neck are creeping upwards. For at least half an hour, I forgot where I was – which is more than you could ask for on a cold, February night.