Ever been at a gig where you can’t hear your own hands clapping? I have. Sure, it was fun listening to music, and bird song, and people’s voices. But that’s in the past now. All the omens were there — when the first punter you see is wearing a camouflage kilt, a green beret, and the kind of thousand-yard stare that most combat vets would run a mile from, you know you’re in for it…

I’d already been physically chased from standing in a 4-inch square space of an already overcapacity venue with horrendous sight lines. But where to — except into someone’s sopping oxter — is anyone’s guess. The guy beside me has been shouting “let’s go” for one hour. I’m home.

Yes, friends, we’re in the trenches again with Newcastle’s finest doom metalers: Pigs x 7 — or “the five horsemen of the apocalypse,” to use their Sunday name. Battle-hardened and up for the fight — the fight to keep my auditory organs in 70% working order — it was time to buckle up, set the jaw, roll up the sleeves… Ach, you get the picture. But that’s me. Last in, first out.

As soon as our porcine pals appear to the inimitable strains of AC/DC’s ‘For Those About To Rock’, the inevitable ‘restructuring’ of the front lines begins — the equivalent of shaking ants in a bottle of water. The “let’s go” guy already has a generous ‘perimeter of distrust’ encircling him. Smell the energy.

Opening up with the bone-shuddering intro to ‘The Wyrm’, the decibels are at howitzer level. It seems the band have jettisoned any notion of being a parody of Motörhead — they’ve subsumed them. Orange amp cabinets stacked like monoliths either side of the stage — similar to Spinal Tap’s Stonehenge — but normal size. Now that’s scenery.

Huge earthquake-sized bass chords physically move the crowd back, exploding like water on granite. It looks like a re-enactment of the Persians versus Leonidas’ 300 at Thermopylae – with added tinnitus. One song in and even the band seem shocked by how hard they’re hitting.

Singer Matt Baty — black wife-beater, silky wrestling shorts — looks especially demented tonight, bellowing like a brazen bull, his armpit hair glistening. The reason, we soon find out, is years of being snubbed by Download Festival — in favour of Vengaboys. So, normal rules of engagement out the window, the band set about pummelling the patrons to a primordial soup.

‘Carousel’, from their new album Death Hilarious, makes Sunn O))) sound like Sabrina Carpenter — the noise equivalent of being in a crush cage. Seems Caligula missed a trick. ‘GNT’ continues the relentless assault, bassist Johnny Hedley’s neck vertebrae sending out gravitational waves, and guitarist Sam Grant chunking off riffs the size of asteroids. Even green beret guy is frozen by the debilitating cacophony. He frantically looks to the front row for support, but they can’t help him now.

The mid-song breakdown in ‘World Crust’ would lead to — you’re ahead of me here — a breakdown, Matt furiously hopping about like a man trying to stamp out a bag of flaming shit with one foot and pump up his car tyre with the other. By the time we reach traditional closer ‘A66’ the entire band are a contorted mass of grim fury — Baty’s voice roaring like Beelzebub with strep throat. “Let’s go” guy is weeping. I would be too if my tear ducts hadn’t been vaporised.

Pigs x 7 are a phenomenon. Cash in your granny’s pension book for a ticket. Ever seen a metal crowd bounce out a venue to the Vengaboys? I have.