There’s a guy to my left rocking back and forth, occasionally resting some of his weight against the wall; he swigs from a beer bottle, not the first he’s held this evening. “This band… fucking great… this song, probably… probably my favourite song of the year… amazing…”

I smile. I know the guy – he’s no drunkard all of three seconds away from demolishing my face should I answer the question of “Don’t you think so?” incorrectly – but I edge away all the same, as such inebriation can only be contagious. With a head already fuzzy through ale consumption I’m in no mood to wake up come the ‘morrow with that all-too-familiar thud-thud feeling above my brows. Besides, I don’t need to agree simply to stave off any possible threat, as his observations, while scrambled and slurred, are essentially correct: Lords, right now, sound good enough to intoxicate the most hard-line straight-edger.

Breaking the three-piece down into its constituent parts reveals thus: one drummer, very good too, and two guitarists. There is no bassist. Generally, such a musician is required to generate this level of force, this bombastic, combustible cacophony that, while astutely controlled by its pilots, nevertheless permanently remains but a few feet from the ground, from the disastrous loss of all those aboard. It strikes you again: there is no bassist. But why the hell is my head going thud-thud, sans beer?

Thud-thud-thud… because of the sheer showmanship of the set unravelling before us attendees, basically. Lords, y’see, are true masters of their mutant-blues craft, of venturing beyond post-prefixes and into a realm of retrospective yet forward-thinking compositional intelligence to which few acts – nay, no British act, to this punter’s knowledge – can offer a single song of equal worth to. They spin and twist riffs about themselves ‘til guitar strings are bunched and drumsticks look knotted; their sideburn-sporting drummer rocks superbly well, the name Elvis entirely appropriate – where one swung hips ‘tils girls swooned, the other bludgeons ‘til pale-faced indieboys are flushed entirely. Twin guitarists battle over vocals yelped, but the band’s apparent preference for musical urgency is forever underpinned by their ability to withhold – whereas other, less-experienced acts would shatter a song come its end, these efforts are generally allowed to wind down. It makes for an altogether uplifting experience, as well as being simply sensationally loud.

Our opening scene drunkard shakes my hand as he leaves, as friends do; he wears the sort of smile few gigs leave you with, that only the fully satisfied customer can call their own. You need a greater recommendation than that in a supposedly critical piece, then brother, you’re reading from the wrong rulebook.