For four months now our normally peaceful, virtually soporofic, student existence has been rocked to its core by the incessant chatter of crazy beats and sub-bass booming from the subterranean recesses of Farhang’s bedroom, known affectionately as the Síyáh-Chál because "no pen can depict that place, nor any tongue describe its loathsome smell."

Farhang and his college friend Aziz have decided that they are about to be the next big thing on the music scene and have, thanks to Aziz’s dodgy brother Salim who runs a highly successful jewellery and perfume outlet from a suitcase on the High Street, kitted themselves out with the latest drum machine, turntables and keyboard technology.

Asking me to describe the sounds emanating from behind the iron grill in Farhang’s door would be like asking TV gastronaut Delia Smith to comment on Quentin’s mung bean casserole - in other words, I wouldn’t have the words to know where to begin. Even our terrifying cat Darth Maul, who I would have thought would seek out such blood-curdling sounds, has found every reason to be out of the house when Aziz comes round.

"Face it Roscoe," yelled Farhang at me one day after I told him I would rather eat my trainers than listen to his music, "You are a snob. You listen to your poncey Portugese Fado music and obscure Somalian pop and when it comes to me, expressing the essence of my soul through the medium of technobabble, or whatever it’s called, you dismiss it as if it was some foul odour wafting past your up-in-the-air nostrils."

"Yeah, right," I snapped before throwing my minestrone Cup-a-Soup over Farhang for being rude to me - and for being right. I was not in the mood for a discussion on the merits of music which to my ears sounds like a fleet of mechanical diggers ripping apart a mattress factory.

"But this is what the Faith needs!" protested Farhang, wiping the coagulated spaghetti hoops from his raging forehead, "How often have you said the music at Bahá’í events is awful... now here’s our chance to do something that will make the kids sit up and listen!"

"...and will make the adults leave to join the Quakers," I retorted.

I know I am perhaps being unreasonable, and yes, Farhang’s right, we have all - have we not - sat through the excruciating pain of a five year old inflicting their violin scales and arpeggios on us at Feast or the former-hippy-now-52-year-old in floral-print shirt, cowboy boots, (worse still, his trousers tucked in!), singer-songwriter with acoustic guitar giving us his rendition of "Lay me down my weeping soul at the gates of Shiraz".

And yes, of course we must allow everybody to express their faith through the medium which most speaks to them and their generation. But that, Farhang, to my ears, is not music. It’s the kind of industrial waste which governments make international treaties about.

Anyway, how wrong can a man be. There we were at the national Bahá’í youth conference - Point of No Return 2005 - and the moment came when Farhang and Aziz were to make their debut as the self-titled Heavenly Mullet Brothers.

After much backstage shuffling about and microphone feedback, the curtains parted to reveal our two friends, in silver shell-suits, submerged in dry ice.

The kids went mad, as if none other than Kanye West himself had entered our midst - or mist in this instance. The beat kicked in, the synths chattered and pinged, and Aziz took off on a flight of high-octane rap where I was able to make out the occasional word such as "mad-cheddar", "gats", "bling", "Ramallah" and "Bagpuss".

Three minutes later and the crowd were wild, screaming, throwing their Ruhi books in the air, non-Bahá’í visitors declaring, otherwise respectable members of senior institutions jumping up and down - it was a miracle to behold.

"Well Farhang," I told my flatmate later, "You certainly proved me wrong... I was actually... well... quite proud of you."

"Aw thanks Roscoe," sniffed Farhang. "I knew you’d see sense... Oh and by the way..."

"What?"

"The kids loved our music so much that we decided to have a weekly dance-trance fireside here in our house..."

Fantastic. Just let me know the day so I can join Darth Maul out on the street.

By Roscoe