Through the thin walls of my house, a Motown compilation is blasting in from next door. Smokey Robinson, The Supremes... it’s a very considerate neighbour who will note the morning sun lighting up the roads, reflecting off the parked cars and subsequently find the appropriate soundtrack. With my ears still ringing from the night before, it’s as though 45 year-old Bob Mould, through the power of buzzsaw melody, still has the power to shift something in the atmospheric ether.

Mould, ex-Husker Du, ex-Sugar and full-time music legend, doesn’t come across to these shores very often. In anticipation of his arrival, the task of proclaiming Bob’s finer qualities is undertaken by a lairy group of students stood near the front. Announcing at full volume his genius, the lads decide to educate their two decibel-shattering, squawky girlfriends with a slightly misguided but authoritative discography. Ironically, they fail to notice that the man with the grey beard, woolly hat and worn-in leather jacket laying out the guitars is Mr Mould himself. Armed only with an acoustic guitar and his trademark turquoise Stratocaster, he meticulously places them out on his guitar case with perfect symmetry before officially taking to the stage.

Looking like the beefy father of Action Man, Mould commands the room with presence and intensity. Beginning with acoustic versions of songs spanning his career, including ‘Celebrated Summer’, ‘See A Little Light’ and ‘Hoover Dam’, he still enjoys his acoustic songs pretty loud. Dripping with sweat and eyes scrunched in concentration, halfway through the acoustic part of the set, Mould finally makes piercing eye contact with the lairy kids whose incessant chatter ripples through the venue, and reasonably inquires as to why the hell they bought tickets when they've got their backs to him, talking. With rousing applause, he presses on without sacrificing either the momentum or intensity and delivers the mournful ‘Hardly Getting Over It’.

Swapping the acoustic for the electric, and proclaiming "That’s enough of that quiet stuff," there's clearly no evidence of Mould softening in his old age. He hammers through tracks off his latest album, Body Of Song, and the absence of bass and drums is far from noticeable as his guitar is perfectly splintered with dynamics. The sound of the overdriven guitar is unmistakably Mould. Once described as the sound of glass shattering in an empty church, it forces the melody to levitate out of the chaos. Unexpected gems like Husker Du classics ‘Chartered Trips’ and ‘Makes No Sense At All’ are slipped in with hardly a moment's pause. His voice still flows with honey-coated waves of sincerity despite the fact that the pace he sets himself is breathless.

Delivered by any other artist, the sonic onslaught and seemingly one-dimensional approach of one man and an ear-bleeding electric guitar could be too much. Yet Mould’s fervent passion and boundless energy keep the whole evening on a snowblind, heavenly plain.