Clutch have never been a ‘now’ band and, frankly, they’ve never needed to be. They’re so steeped in American tradition, both in their steadfast trust in the blues and honky-tonk and their love of mid-western mythology, that they’ve become a pseudo-Alamo for those who like cheap hooch and good smokes, something timeless and to be revered. In this sold-out ballroom supporting Thin Lizzy, though, they’re mere whippersnappers in comparison to the other acts (and most of the crowd), prompting more than a few bemused looks when Neil Fallon’s hearty bellow of “What’s that smell?” signals the entrance of regular show-starter ‘Who Wants To Rock?’

It’s a blusterous start, and it doesn’t get any more subtle. Fallon stalks the stage, ranting and gesticulating through their ode to who-knows-what ‘(In the Wake of) The Swollen Goat’, Tim Sult releasing his own tirades of Bourbon-blues riffs and solos that see more wah than a maternity nurse, and when Fallon picks up the six-stringer himself for the bleakly absorbing ‘The Regulator’ it’s a moment of respite, though only in terms of volume as the gruff confession of “how many times have I prayed the angels would speed me away?” sinks the tone into the mire, albeit only briefly.

While the Thin Lizzy massive are still scratching their heads at the insane sermon unfolding, Clutch’s acolytes witness treat after treat. ‘Pure Rock Fury’ showcases the band at their wildest, Fallon’s mountain-man-bearded visage barking irrationalities at the roof; a sneak-peek at Clutch’s future in the form of an untitled new song delivers exactly what anyone could hope, namely the stop-start southern riff from Hell (not the one in Michigan, the other one). And, for those who like their entertainment intimate (and cheap) they announce a free Glasgow show the next night for all who need more of a fix. In other words, everyone that still wants to rock.

David Bowes