Blanck Mass @ Summerhall, Edinburgh, 22 Aug

“You think it’s so easy”, spits Anxiety’s vocalist Michael Kasparis, eyeballing the early-doors crowd. The four-piece are a local supergroup of sorts, having come up through Glasgow’s punk scene in a variety of previous bands – and this experience shows itself in Kasparis’ roaming presence, across the stage, the floor, and through the audience. Kasparis prowls with a mic in each fist, tangled in wires, as the band’s bassist and guitarist stand cooly impassive, backs turned. There’s a pause to ask, very politely, for “slightly more guitar”, but otherwise Anxiety are true to their name: it’s a frenetic, furious ride through occasionally impenetrable hardcore, fuelled by spades of distortion and trippy effects.

Anxiety’s noise levels are fair warning for the unholy battering we’re about to receive. Seasoned Blanck Mass fans dig out the earplugs as drone maestro Benjamin Power sets up shop behind a plethora of equipment, and it’s not a moment too soon. Opening track The Rat, from Power’s latest LP World Eater, pummels with such ferocity that bodily organs are rearranged. Glitchy visuals slowly morph into the Blanck Mass logo, and the pace is doubled: Rhesus Negative feels like living inside a frantic, nightmarish video game. Filtered beams of yellow light shine from the Dissection Room's lofty ceilings, silhouetting Power against the giant screen behind him.

Robots, maggots and amorphous lumps of flesh flash past in disorientating succession. There’s a welcome breather for Please, and the track’s seven minutes of wonky, spacious, churning synth is beautiful against the brutality of a thunderous, world-spinning number like Dead Format.

Fans of Fuck Buttons already know that Power is a seasoned pro when it comes to building brief, ecstatic moments of release into otherwise monstrous sets. This evening feels like a masterclass, as he throws the merest of bones to a dripping, overheated crowd. The volume is unbelievable and relentless; there’s no option but to drown in it. Fifty minutes crash to a final, glorious finale... and we’re left with unbearable, piercing feedback. Your typical end of gig shouts for “one more tune" are mixed with a different kind of desperation: “Get back here and make this stop, you fucker!” We suspect that, to Blanck Mass, that’s the highest of compliments.