You know you’re in for something special, and you can’t help but be a bit excited. This is Shpongle, with live performances as rare as hen’s teeth, and with this being the first such performance anywhere in the southern hemisphere, you can’t help but let yourself be taken away by the rapturous applause and cheers when they appear on stage.

And the colours. Oh the colours. So many of them. It dawns on you that this is to be an experience of sound and sight. And with what looks suspiciously like a prop table positioned stage left, the fun looks like it is about to begin. This is Shpongle, so get ready for an experience.

They set us off on our journey, and although the name of the song appears to matter little, you note that it is Schmaltz Herring that has the crowd – like you – absolutely transfixed. Their presence on stage is without peer, and with so much going on it is all able to stimulate the senses.

Before you know it, the familiar sounds of Dorset Perception hit you. It is quite simply, all sorts of amazing, and not even the rousing reception at the end of it does this classic tune justice. For this is Shpongle, and they are in a league of their own.

You notice the affable Raja Ram taking a seat by his prop table, casually sketching a message for the crowd. In the meantime, a scantily clad woman – Michele Adamson – on stage sings, almost moaning at times. Capturing the collective breath of the crowd, she is joined by a brunette – Hari Om – in a dark long flowing dress, singing with similarly angelic tones. The music envelops you. The lighting intensifies. The beat continues to smash away. The sweat pours down the back of your neck, but you dare not miss a beat. This is Shpongle, and they have your complete and utter attention.

You realise the man next to you is dressed only in shorts and body paint. Normally, it might pose a question – here, there is no need to even ask. Adamson reappears on stage, this time in hot pink, and set among a backdrop of visual wizardry, your eyes don’t know where to look.

There’s so much going on, and you continue to experience an aural delight like never before. Then, as you glide into DMT and you watch the crowd rises and falls, rippling briefly, but only until – like a wave – it breaks, smashing into individual divine moments of truth. Shpongle: they have clearly brought their A-game.

For the next 90 minutes, we witness everything from the breathtakingly beautiful No Turn Unstoned, to sincere apologies to the crowd for not touring down under sooner, Brazilian dancers bringing a touch of ‘Carnivale’ to the ol’ Enmore, a cello enduring some seriously plucking, a rendition of Invisible Man In A Fluorescent Suit like you’ve never heard before, visuals that go a long way to melting the mind, a crowd seemingly suffering from a shortage in shoes, but all up, an amazing experience. In fact, on the subject of the crowd, you realise it is like one you haven’t seen since, well, ever.

But the music, oh the music: it is so deliciously good, you do not want it to end. By the end of their performance, you don’t have to look far to see a face that – like yours – is experiencing a similar realisation to your own: that this was something truly special. They exit to rapturous applause, and suddenly, it is all over. The loud and colourful Brazilian dancers are replaced with a haze of blue expectation and hope that they will return for an encore.

And when they do, they absolutely nail it. Beija Flor will probably go down as one of the best encore performances you’ve ever seen, and you look around and realise that everyone is moving: even those sitting down. Shpongle: The energy electric, the vibe contagious.

Scattered among a sea of an epic breakdown, one very happy punter muses to you: “the best thing I ever did was buy a ticket to Shpongle”. Amen. As you walk out and all and sundry appear to be in some state of disbelief as to how good the show was, you know that this punter is not alone. Bravo Shpongle, bravo.