It’s cold. Save for one brief run and the odd cursory hands over my eyes glance at the news, I’ve spent almost all day reading under a blanket. It gets to early evening and my housemates are making bread from scratch. Our home is just one pumpkin spiced beverage away from wholesome autumnal perfection.

‘This hasn’t got anything to do with music,’ I hear you cry. Patience, dear reader. Patience.

Back to my kitchen. Dough is rising on the radiator. Secondary dough is being kneaded on the worksurface. Indecipherable* French tunes soundtrack the whole picture perfect affair.

Are you there? Have you been transported back to Saturday night in my kitchen? Good. It’s important context for what I’m going to say next – I’m hoping you might be more willing to empathise with me.

It’s still early but it’s dark already, outside is uninviting and I don’t want to leave the loving arms of the house to go and see Henge. I’m sorry, I just don’t.

But I do, of course. I shuffle out the door at the last possible minute, hop on the 86 and hotfoot it into Manchester Academy 2. A bearded man with a cloak and a plasma ball on top of his head takes centre stage, surrounded by frog aliens and alien aliens. It is time.

Henge tell us of the great Venusian Apocalypse, a planet wiped out by mass extinction. They sing in praise of life-giving water, with their Cosmic Dross they demand that the weapons of war are manufactured no more. The crowd chants that same sentiment right until the end of the gig. Henge might have come from another planet but it sure feels like they’ve got their alien fingers on the human pulse.

What else can I tell you about Henge? They will make you dance. They will make you dance with wild and reckless abandon. Everywhere I look there is dancing. Place an elaborately dressed four-piece on stage and suddenly inhibitions are lowered. Arms flail more freely, hips wiggle, hands make fists and punch the air. There are kids in the audience. Mums, dads, young, old – the joy that Henge offer has no target demographic. Feeling disheartened with broken unions, the state of the nation or the markup on cinema popcorn? Go and see Henge.

Tired of politics, tired of the news cycle, just plain old tired? Leave the warmth of your kitchen and see Henge. Chant, dance, and join the literal (and maybe metaphorical? I haven’t quite thought that one through) conga line. You can thank me later.

*arguably not indecipherable if you can speak French

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Former newspaper journalist who has started dabbling in radio. Just returned to Manchester after a stint away in the wilds of Cumbria and hoping to use this reviewing lark as a way to find some of the best music that this lovely city has to offer and meet some creative folks along the way. Find me on Twitter @callmesara