When a German electro trio are sandwiched between the indie-rockings of a singing drummer and the hip-hop crudities of Plastic Little, there’s bound to be an audience of self-acclaimed eclectics in the midst.

And so there is as MIT take the stage. Regulars to White Heat, the alternative music night held at Madam JoJo’s burlesque bar, will be used to bumping bums with the semi-celebrity statuses of the indie scene’s bright young things, so it’s no real surprise to see Lightspeed Champion shuffle inside in time to witness the evolution of krautrock before his oversized-bespectacled eyes.

But as Plastic Little nurse beers in one corner, and Dev is accosted by drunken fans insisting he ‘sssschmilessh ferra pichture’ in another, MIT draw an early crowd forth, with punchy, jaunty, Curtis-inspired moves.

The front row combines Kraftwerk-teed teenagers shouting German obscenities to the giggling trio between tracks, with delightfully pretentious handle-bar moustached grown-ups reminiscing on the eighties electro MIT are revitalising on stage. Someone nods their sunglasses in a nonchalant head-bob to the persistent beat, as the more elusive arty-types hide their interest at the bar, where social networking is rife.

But even they can’t escape The Rapture-pitched, Shitdisco-styled arty-electro before them. Fans will have previously encountered the energetic synth led rhythms, as the band usually tour with resembling artists in the UK’s noughties embrace of fast-paced, punchy electro that the cool kids could don neon face paint to.

It’s always taken some pioneering Germans to lead the way. Even if the increasing crowd doesn’t understand the lyrics accompanying jerky robotics on stage, the passions fuelling them are distinguishable as moments of quiet reflection and microphone head-butting lead into manic springboard jumping, excitedly forcing out squealing vocals; if this gig had subtitles they’d no doubt be ignored for the on stage theatrics of a commanding lead.

By the end of the set, we’ve been taken high, we’ve fallen low, and the excited clubbers ready for an indie disco like no other indie disco have taken to the floor to warm up their limbs, and it’s a credit to MIT that they aren’t merely scowling before their beloved DJ takes the stage.

But they’re shuffling coolly as ‘Park’s Knife-esque riff echoes round the tiny, underground boudoir awaiting the Cure-sampling experimental hip-hop trio that follows. Who says eclecticism’s a cliché?

Ashleigh Rainbird