The cover art of Wives’ UK debut, Erect The Youth Problem, features an image that isn’t quite as random as it might initially appear. Yes, there’s something ever so surreal about a dolphin escaping from the jaws of a wolf, but it is an accurate artistic rendering of the Wives experience, be it on record or live. It’s an on-paper manifestation of the beauty within the beast, of the grace that can be beheld once the layers of violence and aggression are stripped from the surface. Tonight, at the LA-based trio’s first ever show in the UK (the first date of a fairly epic tour that'll see them return to London before hitting the continent next month), said beauty is there for all to see within the outfit’s wild thrashing and loose-limbed end-of-set throes.

What begins as an explosion of energetic exuberance ends in organised chaos: audience participation is key to the Wives experience, so it seems, and duly the band actively invite front-row attendees onto the stage to pound skins and slap bass, while members clap hands and dance to the primitive rhythms about them. Truth be told, the disjointed beats aren’t so far removed from the scrappy set proper: Dean Spunt swiftly loses his cumbersome bass guitar, preferring instead to leap from floor to ceiling with only a battered microphone for company. His eyes are wide, child-like enthusiasm apparent. Yet the crowd is unwilling to co-ordinate their moves with his, instead remaining relatively statuesque, so much so that Spunt is moved into action: “This is your last chance, y’know,” he says, prior to the band’s final song. Accordingly, kids go nuts.

And it’s these kids that Wives are talking to – for 'kids' read anyone with a heart untouched by the soul-sapping repetition of a regular existence, or rather those that choose to not let such a life significantly permeate their otherwise untouchable spirit. Spunt’s slight lyrical adjustments to ‘Babies’ render this obvious: “YOU’RE much to young to be unimportant… we’re much too young… we’re ALL much too young to be unimportant.” It’s unification in a microsecond, and hands are removed from pockets to clap their appreciation. Later, their respect for this band – strangers ‘til thirty minutes ago – boils over into a rush for the merchandise stall.

Not bad for a debut? Not ‘not bad’ at all: Wives are electrified ambassadors of contemporary give-a-shit punk, and their show – forever spiralling towards a messy end – is never short of gob-gapingly glorious. It’s haphazard, the members’ haywire, and the ears scream their delight for the individual to hear all night afterwards. This is savagery made safe for public consumption, where hostility breaks after one-minute-thirty firework bursts into broad smiles and handshakes, backslaps and hair ruffling. The buzz in the air, even post-performance, is as think as John Carpenter’s Fog; the sweat is as horrific; and the anticipation for the band’s next capital appearance, positively raging.

See you there.