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"But they don't write their own music? I don't get iiittttt," moaned a colleague as we left Wembley last night, having blagged a freebie for Babymetal and coming along last minute.

Meanwhile, me and our other friend, in contrast, were fizzing with adrenaline [so much so we ended up on the wrong tube home and ended up back in Wembley an hour after we'd set off], hatching plans as to how we could run away to become the fourth and fifth member of the band.

Babymetal = a trio who clearly divide opinion.

Inside the SSE Arena last night, the cult worship of these three little goth dolls cuts through the air before they even appear onstage; fans dressed up as them, hands at the ready shaped into the fox sign [their trademark play on devil horns], and chanting which soon metamorphoses into a mass sing/yell-along once the girls appear.

I was mesmerised, under their spell of pseudo rebellion, coffin porn, unique in its bonkers-ness and nostalgic in its 90s-ness.

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Yet a quick Google the morning after shows my mate is not alone in her critique, with heavy skepticism for the threesome who mish-mash speed metal, J-pop, and idol – as the name suggests, a genre specifically designed to market someone to be idolised.

Opinions are quick to damn the girls as a 'manufactured pop group who don't write their own songs', nothing better than 'One Direction with guitars', and their point of sale, 'metal for weebs [someone obsessed with Japanese culture/anime] and paedos'.

To be fair, Whitney Houston, Marvin Gaye, and Elvis Presley didn't write their own stuff. Kanye West has ghostwriters. And even Liam Gallagher sang his brother's words.

As a non-weeb, non-paedo, generally-non-fan-of-manufactured-pop, for me, Babymetal are about losing your s**t to, not their lyrical genius.

(Having said that, Gimme Chocolate!! does explore the yearning to satisfy a sweet tooth alongside the desire not to gain weight. So, then again… )

To overanalyse them is to start picking apart the logistics of why humans like to dance. Or make-believe. They are a product, yes, but no less enjoyable than getting lost in a Steven Spielberg film or J.K.Rowling book.

With the added cathartic cleansing of headbanging your worries away.

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The 12,500-capacity venue boasted an eclectic group of gig-goers; teens, metallers, punks, kids with parents, girls, boys, women, men, Daily Star journalists, a couple who walked out beside us, maybe a teacher, maybe a lawyer, maybe a doctor, who knows…

The point being the vibe was like that of a festival, a space of likeminded people, pogo-ing their way into a Saturday night not middle-aged men standing there jerking off in anoraks.

Their youth – one is 18, the other two 16 – does understandably come under the microscope, though they are more about breaking rules than Lolita aesthetics.

The mosh pits (several breaking out in different parts of the arena) were some of the most extreme I've ever witnessed, despite having been squelched up against the barrier for hardcore legends like Rage Against The Machine, System Of A Down, and Slipknot.

To critique Babymetal without having seen their fans utterly immersed in the moment is a flimsy move, they are a phenomena which you either get or don't, and whether their fans' adoration stems from the novelty or authenticity of the band, there is something which truly resonates.

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The girls – Suzuka Nakamoto (Su-metal), Yui Mizuno (Yuimetal), and Moa Kikuchi (Moametal) – are pure pros, world class, executing killer chemistry against the backdrop of thrashing angst while singing infectious melodies in a sea of flags waved by fans who have flocked from all over the globe.

It is a pyrotechnics spectacle, a sprinkle of capes and dark lord narratives, something which on paper shouldn't work, but in practice does.

Like putting S Club 7 and Metallica in a blender. But better.

Their depth and gospel truths probably aren't going to save you from a break-up, or if you lose your job, but they'll help you exorcise your demons in the pit.

#babymetaltoheadlineglasto17