Floating Points arrive on stage unfashionably early, 15m by my £10 watch. Just as well, there are ten of them. Wind section, string section, drummer, guitars, and then all-round renaissance man/newly qualified brain surgeon Sam Shepard. Looking like a cross between Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, he settles down. It’s on the Rhodes for the next hour.

It’s debatable whether this is music for Saturday teatime. It’s probably suited to 5am sunrises. The rave kids, who were dancing to his warm up tape, didn’t seem to mind. It’s that point in the evening when people would probably dance to a car alarm, were it entirely possible.

It’s not as if you could call them songs, it’s four movements in an hour with codas and intros. It’s so studious and formal, it’s impossible to know how to react. The ravers were already bouncing; I adopted a policy of respectful silence.

It’s from this cool remove that you start to notice the grains and fingerprints of the music itself. Modal jazz, Lalo Schifrin, Wendy Carlos and others are referenced. There is a complete lack of drops, rinses and glowsticks. It’s also a traditional jazz gig; in that everyone gets their own spot. For that amount of people on stage, they all seem to know where everyone is.

I berate the baby blogger next to me for taking notes in a gig. ‘Soak it up’, I tell her. Out of place possibly, but Floating Points will soothe your aching mind; if not your aching feet.

Kev McCready