It’s early November and Model/Actriz have just clattered into Yes and made a very compelling claim to the ‘best gig of the year’ crown. This is an electric, thrilling, chaotic, wonderfully life affirming show, from a New York band of industrial/noise/dance/rockers who smash all conventions of that description in a giddy, queer, raw, burningly physical, fervent whirlwind. It’s astonishing that anyone could see this show and go back to enjoying five lads on a stage with some guitars, I don’t want to watch anything any more unless it’s this visceral.

Singer Cole Haden is the most magnetic frontman. There is no way of peeling your eyes and attention away from him, you want to watch him, you want to get near to him, you need to see him at all times. It’s an addiction that kicks in from the very start of their set, a swift one-two punch of ‘Donkey Show’ and ‘Mosquito’, as he swigs from a bottle of wine and gyrates, pulses, positively throbs on stage as the the diverse crowd shout ‘me and my wretched device’ and ‘with a body count, higher than a mosquito’ right back at him, a mosh pit forming immediately, arms, legs, bodies flailing as the band pound us with their sexy, industrial groove.

And then all hell breaks loose. Discarding his jacket to reveal a vest, Haden says “Mannnnchesssstttterrr…I think I need to get to know you better’, and from hereon in he spends more time on the venue floor amongst the enthralled crowd than he does on stage. He doesn’t just walk around or jump for a bit with the moshing kids, although there is some of that. He stalks every inch of the floor, writhes on his back on the ground, facing audience members nose to nose to sing his sexy, deranged lyrics. At one point he eyeballs a young guy in a cap and jacket for what seems like a full minute, singing directly at him, about 3 inches from his face. The guy stares right back, gently bopping to the pulsating groove coming from the tight as fuck band onstage, held by the intensity of Haden’s gravity; it’s a weirdly beautiful moment.

When he does get back on stage he grabs the lighting rig above him and hangs from it, swigs more wine (and water – stay hydrated kids!), is a whirlwind of activity around his bandmates who, far from being static bystanders to Haden’s Tasmanian Devil energy, are fully into the groove. The sound is kinda muddy, but it doesn’t distract one bit from the thrill of the show. The band smash through most of their recent album Dogsbody, including an brilliantly evil ‘Pure Mode’, with possibly my favourite line of the night in ‘embodying ouija strength, Nero leaks through my teeth’, before they depart in a tight, unbelievably incendiary 45 minutes. I am spent, but I want more. No better way to leave a crowd sweating, wanting.

Homobloc is in full swing just up the road at Mayfield Depot. With a bit of forward thinking booking, they could have got Model/Actriz to show up and absolutely slay the assembled masses there, who would absolutely lap it up; it’s almost a shame (although a privilege for those of us there) that this show isn’t seen by the 10,000 people currently watching Jessie Ware (no shade, she’s great!).

In an interview with Rolling Stone earlier this year, Haden said “I’m able to make something that reflects me, where I don’t see a lot of other examples of me reflected. In this space where it’s so macho and straight, this is my opportunity to make it good”. Like Special Interest, Model/Actriz are forging a way forward for staid industrial noise, an unabashed queerer way; a better way. Forget what you think you know about noise rock and get onto Dogsbody, get down to one of their shows, and revel in the sheer majesty of this genre-breaking band in their ascendancy.