The middle of the week is the proverbial grey area in the average Londoner’s calendar. The onset of a Wednesday marks the end of the working week blues, with the dawn of the weekend a palpable arm’s length away. Strung out across a washing line of a week, I laundered its troubles by listening to music of an equally expansive nature. Ensconced within the intimate surroundings of King’s Cross’ Scala club, a furtive buzz hangs in the air as the crowed waits for Jaga Jazzist to grace the stage. Appeasing this flagrant air of musical thirst, the evening enigmatically unravels with the Hidden Orchestra holding the support slot. Fastened tightly to the stage floor, the quartet arrests the audience’s attention with their armory of unique instrumentation. Two live drummers begin to beat separate percussion patterns from their individual kits. Their pulsating jazz rhythms start to amplify, and enmesh like to a pair of lovers. As the stage lights segue to a subtle shade of blue, an intricate violin groove is laces the drum beats. Skittering hurriedly over the drum arpeggios, the string melody dashes with the impulsive flare of a broken windscreen wiper. Yoking this unconventional palette of live sounds, acerbic bubbles of analogue synths chime delicately in the atmosphere. Come 9pm the venue floor mimics the clustered conditions of a battery farm. Throbbing with anticipation, the perspiration from the bystanders boxed closely to the left and right of us can be felt against our skin. Unexpectedly, a series of halogen lights start to burn furiously on the back wall of the stage. A collection of fruit machine images shine brilliantly from orange, to red, to yellow. Triggered by the rampant wall of applause from the crowed, Jaga Jazzist graces the stage. The 9 strong collective caringly embrace their instruments, and within a New York minute drummer Martin Horntveth unleashes the drum rhythm to opening track ‘toccata’. Thin stacks of pearl shaped lights flash against the stage’s backdrop, and cascading droplets from the xylophone start tinkling from the sound system. Injecting a sense of urgency into the live sonic foray, artillery of guitars is engaged during ‘one-armed bandit’. With his instrument slung over his shoulder like a military rifleman, Marcus Forsgren stabs the guitar strings with a visceral glare in his eye. Searing waves of distorted reverb explode from the amplifiers, and the venue plunges into a tempestuous shade of blood red. Armed to the teeth with multi-purpose instrumentation, the band ensnares our senses with their elaborate 10 minutes masterpieces. By 10.30pm the crowed sway in an emotionally heightened trance. Signifying the carriage to a higher musical plane, the unmistakable sound of the vibraphone marks the introduction to ‘mikado’. Its haunting harmonic quality permeates the air, as a barrage of brass instruments funnel a delectable jazz overture into our ears. The ceiling lights flood the room with bright white light as an epic crescendo brings the night to a close. The verdict: a disarming exhibition of superlative musical capability. Jaga Jazzist’s free form compositions arrest the intellect, breeding an assortment of kaleidoscopic colours along the way. Here’s to incinerating the rulebook on a psychedelic bonfire!