Biffy Clyro

Today may as well be a Sunday.

The 300-strong congregation arrive in droves, to worship at the altar (_of rock_). Wine, amongst other things, is drunk, in the hope that it may pass the time until the moment arrives; 'the moment' being what these kids have been waiting on for the last three-or-so weeks. Hymns of "_you've got all these great answers to all these great questions_" are sung in unison, being flung from corner to corner of the most sweat-inducingly hot place this side of the Sahara. Biffy Clyro have come home.

Then they arrive. Dressed in a white t-shirt, Simon Neil looks iconic, as the blaring white lights bounce from his chest while he beats the shit out of every nook and cranny of his six-stringed weapon of destruction. Within three songs, drummer Ben Johnston has removed his shirt in what has become a ritual at the trio's gigs. Being sweaty is almost a requirement for entry tonight - the three Scotsmen onstage are doused in it, and the audience may as well be swimming. The guitar-mangling ferocity of newer material like '_Toys Toys Toys, Choke, Toys Toys Toys' and 'Eradicate The Doubt_', and the anthemic quality of older songs like tonight's penultimate '_27_', shine out in front of an _ almost_ hometown crowd (Biffy Clyro are actually from Kilmarnock and Ayrshire), and are received rapturously. Every note struck resounds with a life assuring force, every whisper from a microphone is like gold-dust to the Biffy army. To be honest, I've never seen anything quite like this.

When an absolutely thrilling 'Now The Action Is On Fire!' brings Neil flying into the crowd, repeatedly screaming the lines "_Burn the action! Burn the action now!_", you can feel the floor of King Tut's giving way. But you really, really, really, wouldn't want to be anywhere but here. The 300-odd people here tonight will never see something as awe-inspiring as this.

Make way. Biffy Clyro are your new rock gods.