When you slope into a venue past a humming busload of happy clubbers singing along wildly to Eye of the Tiger, you just know it is going to be one of those eclectic nights. In yet another merger of the glow-stick and the frantic, MOS Sessions hit Perth in timely fashion, heralding the end of uni and providing a fine finale to this particular reviewer’s bloody huge weekend.

Having been distracted by the couch for an inordinate amount of time and a’feared of the blustery weather, we sadly arrived in time to catch the very end of the blonde-bonced Concept’s set. After handing my jacket to the charmingly friendly monkey-barman (note to venue – no cloakroom in a revamped setting? What the hell were you thinking??) I scampered upstairs to check out Sardi from above and indulge in some more lazy couching. I was pretty sure there was an early DJ Marky remix thrown in to a pleasant, initially ambient selection of sounds, and kudos must be given to Sardi for some cranking scratching too – he was laying out and layering tunes with better decks-terity than ever. An excellent mix of Freeland’s We Want Your Soul cheered us up, and we were soon on our feet and dancing. Verdict? An excellent set – can’t beat the variety of a few broken up guitar riffs and vocals.

For visual entertainment, there was some fine and clever splicing of on-stage ‘action’ with huge screens adrift with geometrically shifting shapes. And a wide variety of dancing styles provided much to gawk at, from slightly poor popping and locking to some nimble, ridiculously fast footwork. I felt like a judge on “Australian Dancer” (if it doesn’t exist yet, believe me it will) as one after another young hopeful slithered past on deft digits. And soon spotted in the crowd were ravers from metros, wandering around looking slightly bemused and waving their sticks half-heartedly or using their lollipops as guiding lights through the sweaty d n b darkness. In a sad testament to my age, one even asked if I was a cop! Cheek.

Anyway, back to the music. After some more ragga-ish tunes, I was pleased to see MC Assassin take to the stage for some crowd-whupping vocal action. The crowd, already dancing and bouncing lightly off the walls, responded ecstatically to Assassin’s confidently tongue-twisted vocal trickery. His partner in crime was Diamond D, who launched into a tune that sounded like a We Will Rock You for the gurning generation. A bit of Bukem sounding ambience made an appearance, along with a great tune that went something like “Feels like I’m dreaming, I’ve got the feeling…” Anyone? Anyone? And in-keeping with the spirit of the times, a spitting delivery of “Fuck the war, John Howard’s a whore” met with beatnik-style rapture.

Back upstairs, sweatbox ain’t the word. The air smelt faintly like damp laundry and a boy looking eerily like half of Kris Kross in its heyday was dancing mentally around the room. DJ Hype and MC Rage lurked onto the stage to the sounds of the Fugees Ready or Not and suddenly the place was jam-packed and wriggling like salmon swimming upstream. Musically calm beginnings belied the utterly relentless and dark set that followed, very Bad Company sounding throughout. I have to say I got a little lost somewhere during this marvelous set, giving up and jamming my little notebook into my pocket to engage in a bit of furious footwork for a few hours. Let’s just say that Hype lived up to the, er, hype, scratching and scratching and spinning his way through some happily wasted hours.

And so it went. And went. Finally, chirpy cricket music provided the briefest interlude before the last monstrous explosion of jungly, dirty beats that heralded Greg Packer’s arrival on stage. Utterly exhausted by this stage, we could only watch and wiggle our toes to his tunes, until we gave up and wandered weakly off to hitch a homeward ride on the party bus. Snaps to the stayers – much respect.