Ok, I'll raise my hand and admit it; I could have written this without even attending the show. Sleater Kinney are so damn predictable. In a career stretching over nearly ten years they have yet to release a bad album. True, some songs don't always work as well as others, but those rarities still fit perfectly within the framework of the record. Each track does what it sets out to do; they provoke; they make you laugh, cry or both at the same time; they make you wanna grab someone and joylessly hug them because such perfectly crafted vibrations can exist and pulse through the air, from the speaker into your hungry ear. They also know how to rock, something that they prove tonight as easily as Einstein could prove a twelve year old's maths homework.

The expectation of the crowd buzzes like an electric pylon. There's so many people crammed inside the tiny hall you could easy power a turbine from the heat and produce enough electricity for those 50 million-odd folk in America who got stuck in the powercuts. Everyone looks excited, from the young riot grrls seeing them for the first time, to the older, Sonic Youth t-shirt-sporting veterans.

Applause and a few whoops and hollers cry out as the band come on stage and check their equipment...only to then disappear for a few more minutes.

No huge rock entrances for these gals, everything's a little more informal than that. When they come back on stage and strike up the first song, there is a noticable lack of movement as we stand there, held in reverence not quite believing we're finally getting to see them play again after three years away. Then, almost as one, the crowd awakes from the short spell and erupts into a swarming mass of limbs. People rush to the front, climbing through, around and over each other to dance, flail, sing, embrace, push, shove and sweat. 

Each song builds to an orgasmic frenzy. Corin becomes a wailing banshee; Janet, a primal, unstoppable force of pounding rhythm; Carrie, a shoe-shuffling, legs-kicking, mic-felating greek goddess. And what's more, they make it look so effortless as if, even if were simply watching them brush their hair, they would still look cool, still look graceful and perfectly lit. Years of honing their skills have made each song a blissful experience. Their bashful smiles between songs melt your heart while their riffs grab you by your crotch and throw you around like a wild and crazed predator ripping you apart piece-by-piece for it's meal.  

It's almost impossible to pick out favourites as each song is a perfect little gem. There is the rousing Dig Me Out which has a similar effect on the crowd to spiking a bunch of hyperactive kids' drinks with speed. Carrie suggests we use Heart Factory to slow dance with a stranger as she sees the faces before her looking exhausted yet determined to give each song their all. And this is just in the first twenty-odd minutes.

I know this is not a very objective review. Some cold-hearted, too-cool-to-dance-types may well have left the building disappointed (if they did, I certainly never set eyes on them). But fuck it, who cares, every person is shaped so that all their views are informed by something or other. If you want objective, go read the news (though don't kid yourself that there are no agendas at play there either). It's impossible to be objective about music because passion is not quantifiable.