"What you doing tonight?" asks Paul. "I'm going to see Crispy Nuts at Antiknock," I answer.

"Watch out for the jealous boyfriend," Paul says, cackling maniacally into the phone. "You might get your head kicked in."

Schadenfreude might be a German word, but it's a British thing: Paul, a scouser, but still, remarkably, one of my best mates, finds nothing but amusement in the thought of me getting my "head kicked in."

Momoko of Crispy Nuts at Antiknock

He's taking the proverbial piss, I think, as I rewind to a party at the offices of Chainwhipped magazine and the Crispy Nuts incident I believe he's referring to.

I'm sitting on a sofa talking to esteemed Chainwhipped columnist Uncle Jeff when this geeky-looking geezer sits next to him. I turn my head in the other direction and see a blonde talking about her band Crispy Nuts.

I ask for their live schedule, give her my fax number and seconds later she's whisked off by the Geek and another guy. At no time did my tongue even attempt to come into contact with her tonsils. I was professional. For once. I was just a nice guy. Again. What the hell is Paul talking about?

Months passed. Crispy Nuts never called me . . . I got to write a column . . . I got writer's block so bad . . . There's only one thing to do . . .

I write the names of a bunch of live houses on pieces of paper and put them into a hat. I draw out Shinjuku Antiknock. Tonight it's gonna be Fudge Overboard, Disgusteens, Cooler King McQueen, Bent Root, Jacked Up and, erm, Crispy Nuts.

At the gig, Fudge Overboard sound like someone's slipped Valium into their pre-gig Pepsis as they attempt to deconstruct Green Day. They are sweet, soft and sticky . . . like . . . like fudge. This is a band that's screaming out for a gimmick. Like maybe they should saw off their fingers, slice off their toes, or maybe hire a dwarf for a lead singer. Just that little something prevents Fudge Overboard from being a great live spectacle. Now the special guests: The Moms. Suddenly there are mothers everywhere, who are here to see their sons play rock 'n' roll. After hugging their boys (from various bands and, erm, angles), they hand out brown manila envelopes (cash gifts) to their sons' friends and then they stick to the back wall and politely pretend to like the music by allowing permanent grins to carve open their faces while their eyes remain wide open in terror.

Crispy Nuts are on. There she is, Momoko, the blonde bombshell on guitar and vocals, and across from her is Hiroshi, the Geek, on bass, with his upbeat nerdish grin, and then there's Charlie, the drummer, banging away unseen at the back. I wonder if Hiroshi is her boyfriend. If so, he's probably unlikely to kick my head in. Fighters rarely wear glasses. It's too dangerous. I've seen it happen, once, in the last 10 years, but that particular bespectacled dude was a complete psycho. That's the problem: If four-eyed dudes do happen to be fighters they're complete demon-possessed headcases who have the strength of a platoon of gorillas on steroids and don't feel any pain when shards of glass whip through their eyeballs and slice up their brains.

I drink more to forget about it.

I wish I could hate the Crispy Nuts 'cos they snubbed me, but sadly, I have to be honest: Crispy Nuts sound like the awesome Supersnazz, but sexier, harder and displaying more energy than the entire cast of a John Holmes porn movie.

Momoko's voice does start off a little whiney in traditional Japanese girl-punk style, but it gains strength as the set progresses until she sounds like a lioness in heat, spitting out a bunch of punk tunes, fusing the snarl of Nirvana with the shouty anthems of Dropkick Murphys. The crowd is whooping. I have to admit, this is pretty damn good.

Disgusteens take an uncool amount of time to tune up, which is silly, because they're at their best when they screech onto the stage, huge moptops tickling their kneecaps, hitting all the wrong notes and screaming like Joey Ramone hip-deep in a sea of sulfuric acid. Tonight (maybe it's for mom), they're trying a little too hard.

By the time the brilliantly-monikered Cooler King McQueen hit the stage things are getting blurry. The best thing about CKM are their grinning-skull T-shirts. I want to buy one, but I'm out of cash.

Outside, I see Momoko sitting on the stairs and next to her is a toothless monster punk who promptly catches my eye and lumbers toward me. God, this guy looks like someone who got turned down for a part in Tod Browning's "Freaks" for looking too weird. He blabbers something incomprehensible, spraying my face with warm saliva, and then staggers away, grinning inanely. I look over and Momoko has vanished. I shiver and wipe my face.

Back inside there are half a dozen female dwarfs on stage, touching knobs, fingering dials and playing with switches. These are the roadies for Bent Root, who then start playing, but after spilling half a beer over myself I decide on a visit to the car park with Momoko instead -- I ask if either the Geek or the Toothless Monster are her boyfriend. She says no and is then whisked off by the singer of Jacked Up, the headlining band.

Jacked Up have an interesting effect on the audience. It seems that taking your top off, spinning it around your naked torso while gyrating your hips like Tom Jones on Ecstacy is the thing to do here, but I feel a little too old to bother.

Jacked Up proffer ska punk, that lame genre that's a notch below J-Pop, and the singer looks like Alan Alda from MASH with spectacles, purple hair and a baseball cap (eminently punchable).

But, hey, then they start sounding like a dirty, funky Happy Mondays, and the place goes absolutely mental with tattoed nutters surfing the crowd. The Toothless Monster jumps on stage, drags the guitarist into the mosh pit and then climbs on top of a speaker and tears his clothes off while grinning like a chimpanzee after really good sex. On the other side of the stage, a punk swings from the ceiling and repeatedly bashes his head against a light fitting until blood begins to trickle out of his nose. I wobble out of the venue thinking Jacked Up are . . . errr . . . fun, and then I bump into Crispy Nuts.

"You were great. Can I interview you?" I spurt to the Nuts. "Sure," they say. The last thing I hear is a shuffling behind me before I collapse on the floor, unconscious. What hit me?

(Part two may follow, but don't count on it)