Descriptions of Louis XIV make me pray to whoever’s controlling the wet stuff to bring about a deluge of biblical proportions that will make it impossible to get to Fox Studios in time for The Kill’s scheduled support. “Met in Paris”; “attended Marxist meetings”; “half-naked girl with song titles on her back” – it all points to a bunch of pseudo-intellectual rockers making clumsy prepubescent attempts to subvert and shock…..yawn.

Clearly, very many years as a non-believer was only going to buy enough rain to make me soggy and irritable but leave Sydney’s public transport running like the clean and reliable system it isn’t for 99% of the time I have to use it. And to top it off Louis XIV are totally unsympathetic to my miserable pessimism.

Far from the expected faux-Left Bank philosophising, Jason Hill’s lyrics have been fished out of the sleaziest of gutters. The politically incorrect has its wicked way with a set that stomps through T-Rex’s pretty boy glam-rock, Hunky Dory era Bowie and some Jon Spencer showmanship thrown in for good measure. It’s enormous fun but never collapses into parody or disposable novelty. In a fair and just world Louis XIV are headlining V Festival, The Killers are their roadies and I would know better than to make ill-informed preconceptions.

I’m definitely in the minority though, as most people seemed reasonably relieved to see Jason Hill’s taut satin shirt leave the stage. Taut satin is not what tonight is about. The audience, awash with bleach and black and angular faces that wouldn’t look out of place on a Nylon fashion shoot, are here for The Kills. You’d put your house on the fact that VV won’t emerge in silver platform boots and a feather boa.

She doesn’t. When Alison Mosshart stalks out from behind the stage curtain she’s a lithe figure in black and leopard print. Striding around the stage in large circles, black fringe completely covering her eyes, Mosshart looks like she’s insane or going to hit someone. Fortunately she manages to quell any murderous thoughts, opting instead to join Jamie Hince as he falls into line with the synthetic beats that flag the arrival or U.R.A Fever’s uptown sleaze.

The trade off for having the pair contained by the rigidity of a pre-programmed rhythm section has always been the notion that the stage just cannot accommodate anyone else. The frisson that exists between Mosshart and Hince can be so intense, their performance so intimate, it can make the audience feel like voyeurs at a peep show. What drummer could walk away with his or her self-esteem intact night after night of being ritually ignored?

If the samples are going to work however, The Kills have to recreate that simmering sexual tension night after night. And of course, like all relationships it doesn’t always kick into gear. As such the first half of the night plays like an awkward mating ritual between two edgy suitors. Pull A U sees Hince sidle up to Mosshart, trying to edge in on her closely guarded space. Mosshart just turns her back, spitting in revulsion as she sings of “black magic and two dollar love”.

Then it’s Mosshart’s turn to woo, playfully poking and prodding Hince into a reaction. But he wilfully keeps his head down, focused on his guitar and the nervous energy of Midnight Boom’s Sour Cherry. The nagging build-up of No Wow looks as if it’ll do the trick but the fuse is finally ignited courtesy of Kissy Kissy’s blues laden nastiness. Hince and Mosshart threaten each other with stabbed mouths and burned hearts as they close in on the same microphone. Their open mouths seem to merge into one and you can virtually see the exchange of saliva. If it weren’t so compelling you’d be inclined to leave so they could have their privacy.

Although the chemistry flares brightly during Kissy Kissy, the bond slackens again so the two can take their guitars for the pared-back Black Balloon. Mosshart then reinstates her independence by conjuring dark sexual energy to pant and grind out a filthy rendition of Getting Down; eyeballing the front row like she could bed them all without pausing for breath.

As the evening threatens to click over into the following day, Fried My Little Brains provides a suitably grubby finale before an encore consisting of Captain Beefheart’s Dropout Boogie and Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ I Put a Spell on You. The Kills undoubtedly have more intensive, more emotionally connected performances under their belt, but I’ll take an adequate Kills performance over a faked Kills performance any day of the week.