Note: By the time you read this you're still probably suffering a hangover with the force of two stars colliding in a distant galaxy (courtesy of Fuji Rock Festival): far out and painful, in other words. Well, this article concerns the Fuji Rock warmup weekend, an annual ritual where Fuji Rockers imbibe huge quantities of various strange substances to make sure the internal organs are in working order and to prepare them for the festival the following weekend.

The lead singer of Robo Africa defies gravity at Chain-Whipped Magazine's monthly event.

It seemed a good idea to catch some of the maddest bands at the heart of the burgeoning underground ska and punk scenes. As gigs are rarely madder than the monthly Chain-Whipped Magazine event at Sangenjaya's Heaven's Door live house, and they happened to have a punk and ska night, well, it seemed perfect . . .

When you arrive at a live house and receive a juicy tongue-probing snog within 30 seconds you know you're in for a good night, even though I am the victim of big hairy Paul Betney, coeditor of Chain-Whipped Magazine. Paul then proceeds to jump into the moshpit, beating his chest like a gorilla. This might seem quite normal for a punk and ska event, but not if the first band hasn't even hit the stage yet.

Chain-Whipped is different from most events and not just because by the end of the night so much beer and tequila has been consumed that the place resembles a hospital casualty unit more than a live house.

Many events are run by record companies who push their own bands or by groups of friends who push other friends' bands. Chain-Whipped is different. They choose bands on merit alone and even if you don't always agree with the magazine's taste, bands from different genres are often mixed together, which makes it possibly the best monthly event showcasing underground talent that Tokyo has to offer. One night there was even an Indian doctor on sitar opening for a bunch of hard core bands. He insisted that nobody smoke or drink during his set, and remarkably, the kids sat cross-legged and respected his request.

First on tonight are Electric Summer, who stomp their melodies into the stage floor with bouts of blistering discordant noise. But if you close your eyes for one second and focus your mind on this black hole of sound, you find that what's being sucked in are potent little drum blasts, vicious guitar flurries, titanic bass tumbles and a screaming vocal from a guy wearing a Thug Murder T-shirt. It's a spaghettified punk-rock jam at supersonic speed which means Paul's bizarre attempt at a waltz with excitable and very drunk regular Kentaro inevitably ends in disaster and they both fall off the stage and are swallowed up by a hungry moshpit.

On stage a guitarist wears a huge hat in the shape of a frothing dai jokki, which is rather silly, but the bassist, well . . . he shakes his head back and forth so furiously that he takes on the appearance of Mick Jagger in a wind tunnel with his flabby face-flesh flopping all over the place and then there's the singer . . . He spends half a song lying on his back like he's drunk or shy or both and the other half launching himself a meter into the air while barking like a hungry dog.

A 50-plus mother (of some guitarist or other) is suddenly at the center of the moshpit and she's shaking so profusely you'd think she'd drunk three bottles of vodka per day for the last three weeks and is now suffering from some serious DTs. She thinks that's the way to do it. Paul grabs and kisses her. I have photos, but you might be having breakfast. At this point the band is Robo Africa, and is totally cool. The singer also name-drops Thug Murder several dozen times.

(You don't know Thug Murder? An all-girl trad-punk trio who have suddenly become the demented darlings of the punk-rock live-house scene in Tokyo and are beginning to attract a manic following -- even when they aren't playing.)

Fifteen musicians crowding the stage bearing bicep-straining brass means it's time for some serious ska, and Rollings take their ska very seriously. The boys are clad in black suits, pork-pie hats and shades while the girls wear matching black Fred Perry T-shirts with white trim, blue skirts and black socks that make them look like a schoolgirl posse with attitude. Twenty years on from The Specials and 2-Tone ska is still skanking strong in Tokyo.

A few record company executives emerge out of the shadows to nod their heads in appreciation of punk-pop trio Crispy Nuts while everyone else pushes to the front screaming their undying adoration. It's the most aggressive I've ever seen them, with blonde-haired singer Momoko seeming to spit her venom directly at me, but other people claim the same thing, which can only mean one thing: This girl is connecting. Meanwhile, bassist Hiroshi spins about the stage, grinning like he's got a frosted gerbil coming to life in his nether regions.

Crispy Nuts are so refreshingly in-your-face we're left gasping for air, but as it's so bloody hot outside we hang on for the Blue Beat Players, who take a more laid-back ska route, which too often leans toward easy pop.

Paul has collapsed in a coma in the corner, which is a shame, as his pal Ryoko, guitarist and singer of Thug Murder, has just turned up and can't see him anywhere.

The maniac singer of Robo Africa is at the heart of the moshpit, skanking like he's stuck on a treadmill manufactured by NASA scientists. People bump into my shoulders, neck and nose and slam into the table I'm trying to chill out on. Maybe I'm too old for all this and/or craftily conserving my energies for Fuji Rock. No, I'm just plain drunk. It's a Chain-Whipped thing; at 300 yen a drink it's difficult to resist.

At the end of the night everyone's so plastered that there's no stopping. Impromptu parties are hastily arranged and kids giggle manically as they pile into taxis to be whisked off to other infamous dens of dark delight.