Of the countless genres names in common use, – œstoner rock’ is probably the most likely to be used in a back-handed manner. The assumption is that stoner rock is as brainless as the wasted folk who listen to it. Drop-tune the guitars, crank the bass till it rattles the windowpanes, and chug away on a head-nodding rock groove until the drummer gets the munchies, right? There are plenty of generic stoner bands out there who think they too can make a career stapling together classic rock sounds, but there are the rare few who might help rectify the genre’s image problem.

Most likely to reclaim the credibility of modern stoner rock is Black Mountain – whose thundering presence emphasises the visceral thrill of the genre, while neatly side-stepping its pitfalls. “Thundering” is, of course, no exaggeration: once the drums kicked in on opener Stormy High, the force of the music rattled through flesh as easily as it shook eardrums.

Heavy grooves are a staple of the genre, and Black Mountain were only too obliging in that regard. Stephen McBean’s hefty guitar lines were matched with great precision from the rhythm section, whose cohesiveness seemed almost too good for a sound so closely associated with dulled faculties.

If Black Mountain’s sound extended no further than the visceral, head-bobbing rock grooves, the crowd would probably still walk away satisfied. In fact, the band’s ability to make dynamic shifts even within songs multiplies their strength. Offsetting McBean’s weighty guitar work was the vintage organ sound, delivered with an ear for fine detail by Jeremy Schmidt. The airy tones created a ethereal atmosphere that echoed the work of the late Pink Floyd keyboardist Rick Wright. The contrast between guitar and organ allows Black Mountain the freedom to shift smoothly from stoner rock’s earthy beat to astral-tripping space rock. They do this frequently, and with great results.

The cross-pollination of Sabbath’s weight and Floyd’s hazy ambience was most obvious in the encore, during the slow-moving magic of Bright Lights. On their latest album, In the Future, this song is a drawn-out jam that runs for nearly 17 minutes, and conjures the sorts of sounds that force reviewers to find new synonyms for – œdruggy’. On stage, its protracted ebb and flow is a crystallisation of Black Mountain’s sound.

A dynamic epic, Bright Lights shifts easily between dreamy, ominous organ wails and compulsive, insistent drums, then spinning without warning into a huge guitar jam. When the guitar begins to fade out, the organ again steps forward, sparkling and sighing. Twisting through the organ is the wispy voice of Amber Webber, a distant siren tempting sailors to their doom. From deep within this dreamy wilderness comes McBean’s long-dormant guitar attacks – a series of precise, incisive screams that strain at the confines of the song, tearing into it as Amber goes from siren to banshee, and the band brings the song to its crashing finale.

What could have been a tedious exercise in keyboard noodling and guitar wankery was in fact a compelling affair. Admittedly, during the long organ parts, the energy in the room seemed to flag a little, but as soon as the guitar cut through, the release made it all worthwhile.

It would be easy to dismiss Black Mountain as another band of hippies and stoners in thrall to their idols. No doubt in a review somewhere, a lazy journalist has used a fake slip of the tongue (“Black Sabb – sorry, Black Mountain”) to mock the band. It would be easy, but it would sell them short: Black Mountain balance reverence with an experimental spirit that reaches beyond their record collection. On record, they are impressive; on stage, they are thrilling.