I slipped into The Brook with a camera, a clean shirt, and the naïve hope that cause and effect would remain on speaking terms. Then Treacherous Cretins ignited the stage like a science fair project built entirely from confiscated fireworks and unresolved childhood questions.

Early in the proceedings, a blow-up sex doll was elevated above the crowd like a dubious patron saint of elastic morality, gently oscillating in the convection currents of hot amplifiers and bad intent. Not long after, a suction-cup dildo achieved what roadies call “secure mounting” on the guitarist’s instrument, converting an innocent slab of wood and wire into something that looked like it should come with an owner’s manual and a court summons.

Through the viewfinder, the whole spectacle felt less like a concert and more like a missing chapter from the touring diary of Frank Zappa — precision colliding head-on with mischief at a speed normally reserved for small meteorites. At the center of the sonic commotion, Robert Martin commanded keys and vocals with the knowing grin of a man who understands exactly how weird things are allowed to get before the universe sends a warning letter.

By the final encore, the room had been joyfully deprogrammed. I left with photographs that look like evidence from a parallel timeline where rock concerts are equal parts virtuosity, satire, and inflatable theology — and where normal behaviour is checked at the door next to the fire exit sign that may or may not lead to 1974.