Brixton Academy was sold out for Dangermau5, a name born from the web and pronounced Dangermouse. The crowd was laden with teens in the auditorium, along the fringes those nearer thirty stole their fun. Before them a giant cube covered with LEDs stood precariously on one point. Atop stood a man in a huge mouse hat, similarly covered with lights. Heavy electro pounded and whined from the speakers. Faded shifts. Regular rhythms hitting an ambient peak, then cutting back to the tempo in new time.

The throng writhed before the mighty rodent, as freakish Cheshire cat smiles and robot visors flickered across its massive head. The cube, along with the stage lights behind it, moved through flames and circuit boards, to a rubix cube and then back again. The air turned humid as bodies rubbed against each other across damp fabric. Arms of the elated were draped over companions with heads turned up to the lights. Ecstatic faces suddenly drooped with exhaustion to hang limp from the neck, only to revive in the energy of the crowd and return afresh to gape at the stage.

The eclectic DJ stuck to electro from midnight until two, to be followed by another jockey to play the night out. Sated bodies staggered out into the air of South London, their clothes even more damp than when they arrived in a rain shower four hours previous. An excellent show. Girls in their bras swayed above men’s shoulders. Arms stretched as high as bone and sinew will allow.

All that energy, that vibe, without one human voice. Synthetic rhythm alone carried the audience aloft and touched them gently down, assisted by whatever they brought in with them. People of the boroughs, some from the other side of London, united before a colossal LED display. Electric sounds and electric sights; conducted by one man.

To a naysayer the idea would be inhuman, a false prophecy born from something other than flesh. Not one drum, not so much as a string on stage. For many it had the desired effect. Some got lucky, some didn’t. Some left with those they came with, some didn’t. Together they returned to a city, to electric avenue, to find more that was inhuman.

Gil Scott Heron is doing his thing, his spoken word, but not this night. Not in London. His gig, which rallies against the vaguery and constructed truth of any city and any government. Our nation’s government, one which was set to change the following week. An election with the same light show, the same false expressions. The same absence of humanity that creeps in when not one word is spoken with feeling.