Eagles of Death Metal's sound could be drawn in broad strokes from image alone. Moustaches, aviators, flying-V posing and other iconography cribbed from the rock hall of fame indicate their ballsy, fret-shredding rawk as accurately as the solos traded at length between guitarists, banter about fleeing police, and song titles like Goddamn I'm A Man. They're a riot.
With Cornerstone barely charting and Humbug-buzz more muted than previous hype-tornadoes, a relatively subdued reaction from the sold-out SECC might have been explainable. Luckily, such idle speculation is dismissed the moment the Arctic Monkeys pile into Dance Little Liar and every fresh-faced disciple loses their compusre. Erupting into a flurry of immaculate hair and polo-shirts, the fan's overexcitement forces security to pause proceedings occassionally to resuce those drowning in the flexing crowd. Frequently, the urge to sing along meets Alex Turner's elaborate lyrics head on, and the result is thousands opting to chant riffs rather than choruses. An encore fusing Flourescent Adolescent with Mardy Bum rescinds on their threat to retire the latter, but it's a forgivable flip-flop in an exemplary affirmation of their position at the top of Britain's indie-rock ladder.