Mogwai

Lately, people in Turin must feel like they're in India. Sky-high humidity, scorching asphalt and sleepless nights have been wearing down the resigned locals for days now, even though it does rain from time to time - you'd expect the usual summer storm, but "summer storm" is putting it mildly: within a few minutes the sky can dump enough water on the city to quench the thirst of an entire African country for a week. So when, around 8pm on Tuesday 12 July, I head towards Spazio 211, the venue that has hosted Turin's best indie shows for years now, one glance upward is enough to make me resign myself to the idea that even Mogwai, in town after a long absence, are going to end up playing a rain-soaked show. Grey clouds heavy with bad omens are gathering over Spaziale Festival 2011.

Around 9:30pm, the crew pull the covers off the instruments, pedals and amps: for now there's no sign of the dreaded daily monsoon, though the air smells of rain, as well as the usual smells you'd expect at any self-respecting live show. The concert can start as scheduled.

The band materialises on stage around 10pm. After a brief introduction ("We're Mogwai from Glasgow" - for anyone who wandered in here by accident) they open with the track that kicks off their latest album, "Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will"; there's no doubt about it, few bands in the world choose album and song titles with as much irony, as fans of the Scottish band know all too well.

From the first notes, I get the feeling that the sound of the instruments, and the drums in particular, isn't quite right, and for a band like Mogwai that's anything but a minor detail, I think with a touch of apprehension. I look to the people around me for reassurance, but no one else seems to share my impression, even though the first dynamic shifts of "White Noise", one of the most euphoric tracks in their whole catalogue, soon push the sonic quibble into the background. Then, a few minutes later, when they move into "Rano Pano", with a whole crowd of guitarists, official and unofficial, taking turns to kick it off in an amusing little procession, something seems to have changed for the better, and the drum entrance finally sounds the way it's supposed to.

Meanwhile they play two songs from the new album (out of two); everyone expects "Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will" to be the star of the show, and deep down that's fair enough, as even the many fans who insist "the old records are always the best" well know — given the choice, they'd ask their heroes to play nothing but songs at least ten years old.

"I'm Jim Morrison, I'm Dead", which actually comes from their second-to-last album ("The Hawk is Howling"), works much better live than in the studio version: from the intro, à la Sakamoto, right to the end, you get the sense that their obsessive attention to detail — which some mistake for Nordic coldness — meshes perfectly with the sheer, unbridled pleasure of performing live, a kind of paradox that Mogwai manage to untangle like few other bands in the world. And the fact that their latest record is also their sunniest is confirmed by "Death Rays", a fairly classic track at heart, but with those major-key chords from Barry Burns' keyboard and the triumphant guitar explosions that follow, seeming to tell everyone present that life is beautiful, in spite of everything. Someone throws their arms up, overflowing with happiness; someone else, perhaps, is thinking their turn will come sooner or later. There's a lot of gratitude in the room.

"Killing All The Flies" takes us back to the not-so-distant days of "Happy Songs For Happy People": the vocoder converses flawlessly with the blazing guitars of Stuart Braithwaite and John Cummings, in one of the band's most recognisable formats, one that, truth be told, few have really dared to imitate. In "San Pedro", on the other hand, the undisputed stars are the bass-and-drums duo, hammering out a linear yet irresistible four-on-the-floor beat, enough to make anyone in the crowd wish they were in drummer Martin Culloch's shoes, venting their frustrations — or flaunting their euphoria — by pounding the snare like a madman. Thinking about it, most of their albums have a track that sounds more or less like this, just think of "Batcat" or "Glasgow Mega-Snake".

After the brief rock bender, there's room for the more romantic souls in the crowd, who are sent into raptures by the languid instrumental of "Haunted by a Freak".

"Mexican Gran Prix" is another tight, relentless track that puts eardrums and vocal cords to the test, while listening to the not-quite-essential "You're Lionel Ritchie" and "New Paths To Helicon", I find myself thinking, for the first and only time during the show, about the songs left off the setlist ("Like Herod" above all, but also "Glasgow Mega-Snake" and "Scotland's Shame"). Fair enough, though — show me anyone who's ever left a gig without wishing they'd heard a different song instead of one they actually did.

We head towards the finale with a ten-year-old track, "2 Rights Make 1 Wrong", which even in its live form retains a core of unabashed melancholy, another of the band's defining traits, though often hidden beneath the noise-rock pomp, with that lysergic ending, a little in the vein of Stereolab, that seems as though it will genuinely never end.

The customary goodbyes precede "Batcat", yet another irresistible guitar deluge, driven by a powerful rhythm section with the usual metronomic precision: standing still is impossible, even though there isn't the faintest hint of anything dance-y in Mogwai's music.

Back on stage, guitarist John Cummings climbs up onto the drum riser and, for the four minutes of "Auto Rock", pounds away like a madman on the cymbals with felt mallets, lit by a red, faintly sinister light beaming upward, in keeping with the track's martial pace: it's one of the few "staging" concessions of the night, because Mogwai don't need technical or visual showmanship to thrill themselves or the crowd.

It all ends beautifully with "Mogwai Fear Satan", the track that closed "Young Team": it was 1997, and plenty of people, hearing it, thought of Mogwai as the My Bloody Valentine of the new millennium. They'd end up being proven wrong, but with no regrets.

As the track slowly dissolves into an ocean of feedback, the musicians say goodbye and leave the stage one by one. The last is Stuart Braithwaite, who gives his thanks and walks off after setting his guitar down and carefully adjusting the volumes and distortion pedals, so that that trailing wash of noise and liquid reverb keeps us company for a few more minutes before it finally stops.

Meanwhile, no one has thought to look up at the sky again: the miracle has happened, it's midnight and not a single drop of rain has fallen to spoil the party. The storm won't arrive until well into the night.

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