The concept of convention is, on some levels, responsible for the mundane aspects of day-to-day living. We get out of bed; we hold down paid employment and take out a mortgage.

But tonight, an auditory repertoire so unique is about to swipe the smirk off convention's face. Taking place within Shoreditchs Village Underground, the mechanical hum of Felix's Machines are heard chiming against the ceiling's robust iron girdles. Exposed brick walls sit on either side of the main stage. Here, a wide white table sits between two towers of industrially sized amplifiers.

Metallic sounding crunches from freshly opened tins of red stripe unfurl into the hall as Leafcutter John sits at the white table in front. Armed with what appears to be an arsenal of DIY equipment, he posies a hand over the electronic guitar resting flat on the table. Taking a baby paintbrush, he progresses to stroke the guitar strings. At this, nascent waves of reverb begin to rumble from the speakers. Transfixed by this spectacle, the crowed bounce their heads appreciatively, as Leafcutter begins to loop the newly engendered sounds with his laptop. Cultivating ambient tones of experimentally carved noise from his work desk, Leafcutter dextrously fires arrows of high-pitched harmonic glitches. Exhaling into a small green balloon, he proceeds to seal its opening with his index finger and thumb. Gingerly holding the inflated balloon next to a silver microphone, he starts to siphon off its air. The cumulative effect produces a fragile kettle whistle that courses across the sonic canvas of the brushed guitar strings.

Completing his set untoward a cacophony of clapping hands, Leafcutter leaves the stage as the venue plunges into a deeper shade of dark. Immediately, pin prick patches of purple lights blink on and off. An effervescent outpour of analogue synthesizers echo throughout the room, as the floor lights switch to full glow. Bathed in brilliant amber light, a gargantuan ensemble of black cabling and snare drums circumvent an arcane piano unit. Bereft of its outer casing, the piano's string hammers sit above a rack of extended microphones. The roof lighting is cut, and the instrumental automaton on the stage is revealed as Felix's Machines.

Stood at the mixing desk on the far left of the room. Digital duo Plaid, start to execute drum loops from their laptops. Initiated by a barrage of applauding voices, Flex Machines kick starts itself to life. The long robotic arms secured above its circular drum units, repeatedly bash the drum skins with perfect timing. The aluminium rack of metal fingers spliced on the keyboard starts to punch the piano notes with binary efficiency. The smorgasbord of synthetic noise pulsates, and gathers volume like a frenetic collection of hydraulic pumps. Bringing their brand of obscure digital harmonies to the evening, Plaid's joint performance with Felix's Machines climaxes as an accelerated rush of cymbals cataclysmically crash with a melange of randomly attacked piano strings. A mind opening audio experiment conflating organic musicianship with industrial robotics. Man, it seems, has just battled the Machines!