Mogwai: The Red Box

So this is what loud sounds like. Mogwai-brand earplugs were on sale at the door. As we climbed still higher through echelons of decibels, my brain began to liquefy and slowly dribble out of my ears. I really could have spared the two quid.

Not ones to cross a picket line, Glaswegian noiseniks Mogwai relocated from the Guinness Storehouse at the last minute and brought their sonic calamity to the Red Box instead. That was the closest they came all night to making a statement. Detonating the set with You Don't Know Jesus, from their imminent album Rock Action, Mogwai swung from terrifying aural assaults to soothing moments of calm. And then right back.

Immersed in brooding soundscapes, a reverential audience remained eerily still. Possibly stunned. A host of musicians skulked onstage beneath a veil of murky lights, slowly scalding the senses with live favourite Christmas Steps. When frontman Stuart Braithwaite finally approached the microphone, the tentative lyrics of Cody merged with sparse melody, jangly guitar and a mournful cello. After this brief respite, it was back headlong into the awesome cacophony of Ex Cowboy. Beginning with muted delicacy and building to a symphony of electric guitar white noise, Martin Bulloch's drums provided a lifeline to the abandon of pure sound. Then Mogwai decided to shift things up a gear. New numbers Take Me Somewhere Nice and Secret Pint saw John Cummins crouched before his amps coaxing layer upon layer of feedback from his guitar. Meanwhile Barry Burns piled on distorted keyboard oscillations, as a rolling bass rumbled the foundations of the building. Mogwai's ability to inject order into chaos, to find melody in clamour, has made them one of rock's great hopes. Deft post-rock to make you deaf as a post.