No-one else writes songs that sound like The Pistols backing Gene Vincent and no-one else has the balls to call their songs things like 'AC/DC' and 'Strictly Hardcore'. Goldblade take the stage like a group of men possessed, always energetic, tonight they seem positively wired, bouncing around the swirling, driving racket, clad in uniform black.

Standing side by side, rattling out the ferocious punk’n’roll riffs at the heart of Goldblade’s tunes, Pete G.O.R.G.E.O.U.S. and Johnny Skullknuckles machine gun the audience with the necks of their twin white Les Pauls. Robb is a bug-eyed gonzoid blur of energy throughout. Whipping his shirt off after about, ooh… thirty seconds, he stalks the Garage’s tiny stage like some gym-hardened ninja, even buffer than usual, kung fu kicking invisible opponents to the ground. One over enthusiastic young man jumps up on stage, apparently taking literally, Mr Robb’s request to 'Kiss my Ass'. “I am Elvis Presley. I am the King” growls John in 'Hometurf', dancing with three young ladies, plucked from the crowd to join him on stage... 'Who was the Killa' and '16 Tons' add a surprising two-tone twist to the fierce rumble. 'Not in my name' brings a serious message to the cartoon swagger. The rumbling guitar squalls of 'Black Elvis' start the encores, a wild-eyed John inciting the audience to thrashing, rubber-limbed moshpit japery.

No garage band writes tunes this anthemic. No stadium straddling rock band dispatches their tunes with such viciousness. No punk band performs with such an unpretentious exuberance. Among an army of racket-worshiping rock’n’roll devotees, they no doubt helped to inspire, Goldblade are still the kings of rabble-rousing, testifying rock-soul party mayhem.