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“It sounds like Lassie’s in a well.”

That single, dry observation from the stage during the opening set from Lassie (8) was the moment the room truly unified. A two-piece specializing in “psychedelic folk laced with tribal punk,” their 30-minute performance felt more like a series of fragmented, urgent stories than a standard set. Vocally and musically these two delivered. For those of us old enough to remember the TV canine’s penchant for rescuing Timmy from various subterranean predicaments, the ad-lib was a masterstroke of wit that grounded their eccentric, tribal energy in a moment of genuine local humour.

The momentum shifted gears significantly with Scott Hepple And The Sun Band (8). Hailing from Newcastle, this garage rock outfit brought a blistering, 70s-influenced fire to the basement. The band was anchored by an absolutely incredible lead guitarist who commanded her space on the tiny stage with the kind of effortless authority you usually only see in much larger venues. Her playing was a high-velocity tribute to the greats, fluid, technical, and possessed of a rhythmic grit that turned the room into a single, head-nodding entity. It was a sophisticated, high-octane set that left the air vibrating.

By the time The Crystal Teardrop (9) took the stage, the venue was at capacity. I’ll admit to being a newcomer to their specific brand of chaos, but when a fellow Musipedia Of Metal writer like Rich Piva tells you a band is worth seeing and specifically requests you export their debut album across the Atlantic (read hand deliver it) you listen.

The Crystal Teardrop are a ball of kinetic energy, a band that manages to soak their sound in the late 60s without ever feeling like they’re wearing a costume. It’s a blend of garage rock, psychedelia, and acid folk that feels visceral and immediate. From the opening notes, they treated the small stage like it was a launchpad, tearing through a set that culminated in a riotous performance of the title track from their album …Is Forming.

Alexandra’s vocals are a crystalline anchor amidst the feedback-laden psych-rock, delivered with a conviction that suggests the band is enjoying the riot every bit as much as the audience. A brief chat with her after the show confirmed as much, there’s a genuine, unpretentious love for the craft here that is infectious.

By the time the final, feedback-saturated roar of “…Is Forming” was bouncing off the damp brickwork, the room felt less like a basement in Norwich and more like a portal to a better, weirder 1967. Rich was right, it’s the kind of energy that deserves to be exported, but for Saturday night, it was exactly the kind of noise we needed in Norwich.