"...Give a shit."

Something's happened to this band. Colour Of Fire have been teetering on the brink of something for a while now. It's been a year and a half since they emerged, sounding like a crazed, chemically volatile cocktail of Glassjaw, Lostprophets and the Icarus Line, aiming a much needed adrenaline shot in the direction of the rock netherworld - yet thus far it's fallen short of the mark. For too long, the promise they've showed since DiS heard their demo has on occasion been marred by slightly disdainful, patchy live performances. The spazzy, fizzy thrills they provide have been coupled with the nagging sense that they could be so much better than they allow themselves to be.

There was always a sense that these boys thought they were too cool for school, and their emoglammyhardcoreblah genre mashup sounded as indecisive as it did intriguing. Tonight it seems they really don't care what impression they make. Instead of ganging up on the audience and taking turns to mutter sarcastic comments at them, Colour Of Fire's two frontmen now direct their aggression at each other. Fuelled by the apathy they evidently feel from the silent throng before them, tempers flare between Richards and co-vocalist/guitarist Stuart Jones, but instead of falling apart musically, this frustration manifests itself to fantastic effect.

Tonight Colour Of Fire sound like a frenzied knife attack. As the anti-dynamic between the two guitarists spirals out of control, everything else gets tighter, harder and faster. By the time they reach the indignant, crashing rampage of 'A Pearl Necklace For Her Majesty', the pace is damn near supersonic. There's a sense that the sooner they finish the set, the sooner they can escape and kick the shit out of each other.

From this angle, it's pure voyeurism; it's as exhilarating to watch as it is bewildering and uncomfortable. In the time they've been away, they've beefed up their sound beyond belief. Their trademark stabbing riffs have developed murderous intent; once angular and spiky, now enormous, cannibalistic and vicious, they devour fistfuls of raw Sabbath hooks before tearing bloody chunks out of each other, guitars poised as deadly weapons. They career across the stage, darting in and out of each other's space, baiting and taunting each other, snarling, kicking and throwing punches. It's a far cry from their usual withering, self-conscious banter.

Whether or not they realise it, it's possibly the best gig Colour Of Fire have played - certainly the most honest. They've proved they're willing to take on each other - perhaps now they can start to take on the world.