I live with a lady who’s particularly hard to please on a musical front. Here’s me celebrating the latest release by (insert act of choice here), and there’s her responding to my dribbling praise with a shrug of a shoulder and a sighed, “I thought they’d be better”. A recent example: The Thermals. Her, me, the Water Rats, a hot-as-hell room and a couple of beers. Oh, and some superbly catchy, melodious, intelligent punk rock. “Meh, I thought they’d be better.” Nine times out of ten my work is well and truly cut out for me whenever I assign my most-welcomed plus one the way of the loved one.

Manatees, though, are a different proposition entirely: this time it’s her doing the pulling – “We must go to this… no, we really must” – while I’m all um and ah ‘cause I’ve a shit-tonne of work to do and there’s the new Youthmovies album to hear and a huge pile of still-shrink-wrapped records in my flat that the ghost of Roy Walker would probably slap a certificate on and I’ve not eaten and oh fuck it okay. After all, back in February – the band played said month’s DiScover Club bill, alongside the jitter-rocking jerk-core of Down I Go and the synth-raping splatterhouse horror punk of Rolo Tomassi – the Carlisle-based trio left me mouth agape and ears stinging, eyes dry and heart ablaze. Their sludgy, sonically spectacular slow-motion rock is comparable on record to a number of trailblazers present – think Isis, Red Sparowes, Mogwai, Sunn O))) – but live they’re as peerless as any British band active as of now; they’re a band whose records are but flyers for The Real Deal, the bones-shaking in-the-flesh experience. A few months back they were the best band from these isles I’d seen in 2007; now, in the summer, that show remains my personal domestic standout. Tonight Manatees simply consolidate their position within my scheme of things – this is spectacular. Just how many times can a man write ‘amazing’ before it gets boring?

And it’s against the odds, too – support act Bossk break down en route, leaving only Down I Go to entertain the assembled (too) few prior to the main event. Their disaster-themed material is fleshed out by short-and-sharp tales of Pterodactyls and battles by volcanoes, as well as a new ode to the shape-shifting T-1000 of Terminator II infamy – “I watched that film with the sound down the other day,” remarks vocalist Pete, “and realised I knew all of the words. How sad is that? Guess which one of us doesn’t have a job…” Any other night Down I Go would prove to be the show in question’s highlight – their Faith No More meets An Albatross grind-pop, all splinters of influences and lashings of an effluence unknown, is a cocktail that’s immediately intoxicating, and with a collective sense of humour that’s hugely endearing the band plough through ten or so songs to great crowd appreciation. But tonight they’re knowledgeable of what’s to come, of what’s following immediately after their taut riffs and rapid-fire screams. “Looking forward to Manatees?” asks Pete. “Last time I saw them it was something of a… religious experience. I was a bit drunk, and it was in the middle of the day, but the strobes came on, and…”

And I remember it like it was yesterday, too – the volume, particularly, but also the visuals. Three men, lit from below, menacing and awesome. Grinding gears and churning bowels. Rocking slowly but surely, building and growing, evolving through songs to climax in a fashion that provoked the biggest roar I’ve ever heard at a DiScover show; it’s what swayed the lady to their gradually-unravelling works of aural art. Tonight, Manatees’ amazing bombast almost proves their undoing, as the venue, essentially, breaks. Those odds are stacking.

The set’s barely five minutes old when a limiter somewhere – apparently there are telltale orange lights by the desk, but my eyes are too firmly fixed on the band threatening this building’s foundations to care for such a toy – pop and the venue’s power fizzes out – silence and darkness washes over all and sundry, and everyone offers a collective expression of frustration. Just as the three-piece hit their stride, we’re back to square one. This happens twice more, but between 30-second technology-enforced silences (oh, pity the neighbours… or, actually, fuck them: they should move) Manatees are majestic, conjuring the most wonderfully enveloping metal-tinged soundscapes imaginable, squeals and screeches of guitar balanced by pounding, driving bass and subtly employed percussion. There is no noise here simply for the sake of it – Manatees’ incredible volume is necessary to convey fully the emotion soaked deep into their arrangements. This is post-rock that stands head and shoulders above the sound-alike hordes, that takes a cue or two from overseas – there can be no doubt that a number of the band’s favourite acts call the Hydra Head stable home – and runs with them, twisting and distorting convention into something magical. It’s nothing totally revolutionary, for sure, but its hold on the individual is beyond impressive.

“We’re gonna play one more tune, before we cave this place in,” says lead singer Alex before all on stage tear into ten further minutes of soul-swelling heaviness that’s, frankly, incomparable to any act of their ilk currently residing in the UK. Manatees shine, brilliantly, live – their senses-scrambling foot-level strobes simply add to the controlled-chaos cacophony, rather than stealing the show away from the music – in a manner that very, very few bands reliant on gentle shifts in epic tides are capable of. You could dissect their material, scattering the constituent parts and call them a mere sum of their many and varied influences, but to do so would be to miss the point. Yes, there is a point: through troubles and trials Manatees still emerge unanimously victorious. Power or no power, they are colossuses. I clap and clap and clap until I realise I’m the only person left clapping and then I clap a little more. And then I dance, dizzily, into the warm night.

Ears stinging, eyes dry. My mouth’s agape, desperate for air, and my heart’s charred beyond repair. No more impressions are necessary – second time out, Manatees prove their colours are the most lasting, the most vividly attention-stealing, of any band that cares to categorise themselves alongside those way-above aforementioned doyens of a scene so often seen to be suffocating under the weight of its own recycled riffs. Manatees are a beacon, a guiding light; follow them, bravely, and fortune will surely favour you. Few bands make me feel so happy to be able to write about music for a living; hopefully a handful of you will take this bait and become a sucker for their stirring performances, too.

I know my lady has, and she’s one tough cookie to crumble. And as for that earlier question: two-thousand forty-eight. And counting…

Photograph by Darren Taylor; visit Manatees at MySpace here.