It was exactly ten years ago when the founders of Gringo Records picked up their first release from the pressing plant. Ten years later to the day, on a hot and sunny Saturday afternoon in Nottingham, twelve acts from Gringo’s past and present (as well as a few friends) come together to celebrate a small and wonderful label reaching double figures.

The sold out one-day festival takes place not in one of Nottingham’s conventional venues, but in the Art Organisation – a recently regenerated, previously derelict building that ‘offers opportunities for the introduction of the arts to the community’. With a local art exhibition and ‘zine collection on display, as well as a multitude of exotic teas for sale, you would struggle to find a more appropriate setting for such an independent label.

Arriving in time for sludge bludgeoners Hey Colossus, the band’s head-battering wails of hell literally blow me straight back into the street. Their MySpace states that they “sound like a car crash”, and the relentless low-end riffs and crunching sound are just as hypnotic as car-on-car disaster, though much more enjoyable. It’s an excellent way to begin an afternoon’s entertainment.

Two disbanded groups, Hirameka Hi-Fi and Reynolds, both reform especially for the occasion – the former are playing for the very final time, while the latter reunite with their original vocalist having become an instrumental group before their split. This adds an extra poignancy to the day, as well as exemplifying the shared respect for Gringo that is clearly felt by every band involved.

Next up are Owen Tromans and the Elders, whose conventional indie-pop sits uncomfortably amongst the day’s Colossuses and Chimps. They are okay, but I overhear whispered comparisons to Snow Patrol on two separate occasions. Designer Babies are as weird and unnerving as the unnatural concept behind their name, veering between discordant blues and violin-driven electronics: tricky to describe, fantastic to experience. Unlike young noisy rockers Sailors who, I’m sorry to say, put the fart in arty farty.

As afternoon evolves into evening, instrumentalists Souvaris are an unlikely choice for party band. Yet it is Souvaris who, during the finale of their excellent set, launch an array of party poppers, balloons, blowers and even a sombrero into the crowd. It’s refreshing to see such an unpretentious post rock act – at one point two band members leave the stage to run around the room banging cowbells. Now that’s entertainment.

Local trio Lords keep the merriment going by opening with ‘I Want To See You Drunk And Dancing Like A Russian’, not exactly the most morbid of titles. Lords’ noisy blues-rock channels elements of punk and Captain Beefheart together with a six-year-old’s energy and Alan Sugar effectiveness. While drummer Elvis appears to be on the verge of keeling over at any moment, he never misses a beat, and thankfully survives.

The interestingly titled Bilge Pump (try rolling your tongue over it) turn the volume up yet another notch. With elements of Shellac and King Crimson, and with a bassist who looks uncannily like Steve Coppell, the band resists categorisation. Punk-blues-math-post rock, call it what you will: Bilge Pump somehow raise the day’s standard of performance even higher.

And then the apocalypse arrives. Part Chimp take everything that has come before them and destroy it all. Intense would be an understatement. This is post-intense. This animal must be witnessed live to be appreciated; cheap studio recordings are an injustice.

Frontman Timm Chimp resembles Jaws from Bond, pawing his way dangerously around the stage or grinning like a maniac at nobody in particular. He seems to grow physically larger as the set progresses. I begin to fear for the safety of the Art Organisation. And then a few minutes later my worries are realised: Timm swings a gigantic arm across the stage, and over go half-a-dozen expensive looking pieces of equipment. As members of Lords, Souvaris and Bilge Pump rush on stage to desperately try and reassemble the pieces, Part Chimp continue oblivious. They don’t need equipment.

As the sludge and crash collapses together one final time, Timm Chimp stretches upwards and tears down the ‘GRINGO RECORDS 10 YEARS’ sign hanging across the stage. The band finally vanishes. The audience moves away. Ten hours after it begun, the anniversary is over.