Uh oh. Looks like someone fed them after midnight.

Mogwai may have enjoyed a period of relative calm on their 'Rock Action' LP, but judging by tonight’s performance that was only the eye of the hurricane. In a set that’s parenthesised by a demon-cleaning 'Mogwai Fear Satan' and the psychictricity storm of 'My Father, My King' the Glasgow fret-maulers transmogrify from saucer-eyed cute-ass furrballs (particularly with leader Stuart Braithwaite’s eye-catching new experimentation with facial hair. Aww! Fluffy Stuart!) to Mogzilla, the band who tear chunks out of buildings.

Although the live experience is a somewhat blunter medium for their constructions – the subtleties in the music are frequently glossed over, and poor sound annihilates everything in … 'Fear Satan', save the static forcefield which screams in two thirds of the way through – Mogwai, surely, are at their most comfortable living out their Kerrang! front cover fantasies. Their epics are widescreen, panoramic beauties that when performed live sound like they’ve been sucked from the elements, but it’s to their credit that nothing is delivered without a dollop of humour, or a spoonful of no-crap earthiness. A magnificent 'Stanley Kubrick' is gleefully sabotaged by Braithwaite’s attempts at rockabilly (no, really) and Barry Burns’ interpretation of the Taxi theme. 'Take Me Somewhere Nice', on the other hand, may be glacial respite, but is still energised by a deep sub-sonic hum that threatens to rip holes in Stuart’s muttered vocal.

The biggest challenge for this band now lies in what they choose to do next. They’ve played that part of post-rockers playing at being a rock band playing at being Slint-meets-Metallica for long enough and now is truly the time for Mogwai to grasp their destiny. They’re the Oasis we really deserve, the most important British band since Joy Division, and half as pretentious and twice as good as both put together.

You’ll be seeing gremlins creeping in the corners of your peripheral vision forever, but if you don’t take them now, at the moment where they’re poised between utter majesty and indie damnation, then may Satan consign you to a lifetime of Travis.

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