There’s a funny thing about indie gigs. All day you’ll be telling your friends about this cool new band you’re seeing in a nice intimate venue and they’ll ask who it is. “Lime Garden” you reply to be received with a blank-faced “ah, cool”.

But once you’ve battled the punching wind and rain powerful enough to exfoliate your face, on the walk up to The Lexington, you’ll find a buzzing group of humans who share a delightful excitement for this cool new band Lime Garden.

I was intermittently blinded by a perma-mirrorball as the band ran on stage, greeting us with just a wave, wearing dresses you’d find in an antique wardrobe - or one you’d find a hippy wearing in a forest somewhere.

The show's engine ambiguously whirrs with the fuzzy, high-pitched guitar intro of Bitter from Leila Deeley and homes your attention to the stage - suddenly that mirrorball is no longer a distraction.

The attention never diverts. The power of their talent is spellbinding, their presence mesmerising. 

Disco rhythms supplied by Tippi Morgan’s and Annabel Whittle’s drum and bass combo had you pigeon bopping your head, shaking out any Tuesday night apathy you had.

Now, I expected to enjoy Lime Garden, but I wasn’t prepared to be blown away. 

They’re more than the music. It's as if the music is being performed by some higher power, something taking control of each of them, effortlessly whipping out note-on-note perfection. As tightly knit as my bedsheets. 

Doll-like fluidity of the group had you in awe of their musical mastery and Chloe Howard’s explosive yet laid-back vocals took the show from class to talk-about-for-weeks-to-all-your-pals.

But, it was the Jekyll and Hyde nature of their performance that warmed your heart to the band. From fiercely commanding during their songs, Howard was self-effacing as she thanked the audience almost before the songs finished.

A phenomenal display of raw energy condensed into an outlet of straight faces and mindblowing new music. They’ve been branded the “ones to watch” by many media outlets already, but now we’re saying it two years later means it’s true. 

Jokes aside, they’re Mr. Kipling’s cakes