CHECK OUT THE PHOTOS FROM THE SHOW HERE.

Let’s be honest here, I could stuff this review with as many superlatives as my thesaurus will yield and still fail miserably in trying to convey the experience of a live Mogwai performance. Unless you were there to pick your imploded chest cavity off the floor and stagger to the exit with muted hearing and blurred vision, the prospect of writing a suitably descriptive piece about the Glaswegian’s Enmore show seems to be as plausible as describing colour to a blind person.

Beaches on the other hand are an easier prospect. Tonight’s support are four parts blonde, one part brunette and have been teleported from Portland, Oregon 1991. They’re no satin slip-wearing Riot Grrrls though. En route from Mudhoney’s early grunge the five girls made a pit stop at The Stooges’ dirty psychedelia, stopped by My Bloody Valentine to pick up some tips from Kevin Shields and brought Kim Gordon along for the ride. It’s grubby, sexy and delivered with serious intent. Fuck the – œ80s revival, it’s about time someone paid homage to the decade that really mattered.

Despite Beaches’ charms, the Enmore’s sloping dance floor only gives up its spaces once the girls have departed. The chewing of nails, the twisting of ear-plugs and the craning of necks have all the hallmarks of an audience that’s feverishly excited yet slightly terrified at what’s about to come.

To the uninitiated, this nervous anticipation might seem misplaced given the geniality of the men that take the stage. Stuart Braithwaite’s greeting is pleasantly banal, while the oversized Scotland flag and green and white Celtic scarf seem to indicate nothing more than good-natured devotion to club and country. There’s not much here to indicate that in approximately 30 seconds these inoffensive, unassuming visitors will unleash a battalion of sounds that will shred our senses and render them a shadow of their former selves.

It’s this sensory overload that means words alone can only do so much. Sure, the usual adjectives and epithets that follow Mogwai around like a celebrity stalker have some merit, but somehow describing I’m Jim Morrison, I’m Dead as an – œepic soundscape’ just isn’t enough. Not enough to describe the sensation of a stately piano taking incremental steps into your skull, then filling the cavities with razor-edged guitars that fire neurons of pleasure and pain at the same time.

Scotland’s Shame may well build slowly to a – œtowering crescendo’ but that won’t tell you that the effects pedals emit a flock of wailing banshees that encircle the audience and infiltrate static bodies to take spellbound souls somewhere less mortal. And yes, I Love You, I’m Going to Blow Up Your School’s circular rhythms and finely balanced refrains are definitely – œhypnotic’, but somehow it’s their ability to scramble your synapses and make you forget your own name that stays with you.

If there’s one moment where Mogwai provide some respite it’s with Cody’s sweet melancholy. Stuart Braithwaite takes a seat for a rare old-fashioned song with lyrics and a chorus, “old songs stay to the end, sad songs remind me of friends”. We watch and listen and enjoy, but look forward to the arrival of Helicon Pt. 1 so we can get sucked into the vortex again and revel under the back-breaking weight of distorted guitars, insistent drums and the promise of rescue brought by the ease of the closing bass guitar.

By this point eyes and ears may be on their knees, but Mogwai aren’t in the mood to exact mercy just yet. Like Herod is as sublimely devastating as ever. The quiet bits (with guitars designed to chill bone) make the spine tingle and palms sweat. We know it’s coming, we know what’s about to hit but the body can’t prepare itself…BOOOM! A cavalcade of noise knocks the audience backwards, strobes attack with such ferocity we’re not sure the floor is still under our feet and all around hands are flying to faces to check that skin is still connected to the cheekbones. Then stop. It’s quiet again, but those guitars…I think I want to cry.

But this stuff is fearsome and addictive. Like the aftermath of a rollercoaster’s heady rush, once you’ve screamed yourself hoarse you’re desperate to get back on the ride to do it all over again. So we surrender to Bat Cat’s bellicose roar and vigorously stamp feet, demanding an encore so we can succumb to the beautiful annihilation of Mogwai Fear Satan and its powerful sucker punch.

Suddenly the lights are up and the Enmore looks like a battlefield. Stunned and dazed, people try and rein in their disorientated state so they can get back to wherever it is they came from. It’s a remarkable experience that could only be matched by a fistful of narcotics or a religious awakening…so I’m sorry if these words don’t come close to telling you just how incredible that is.