Queen Kwong @ Night & Day, Manchester, 31 Jul

The protégé of Trent Reznor is joined by an enrapt (if modest) crowd at the Night & Day Café on a stifling Manchester evening, where gaps between bands are a chance for a few precious glugs of fresh air. That doesn't stop Queen Kwong’s entrancing frontwoman Carré Callaway throwing mind, body and soul into a voracious performance.

It is 8.30pm by the time cheeky chappy openers The Tinfoils bring their mutinous yet whimsical brand of garage-punk to the stage. With mischievous, romping basslines and vocals attempting to splice Alex Turner with Johnny Rotten, the brash and brittle three-piece are pleasingly engaging, despite their angry song about getting fined for littering. Go figure.

Next are Leather Party who start with sound problems and, sadly, things never really improve. They produce a plodding, jarring mix of industrial metal and post-rock which initially catches the attention but quickly falls flat. They’re aiming for a sleazy, provocative mood but don’t have the charisma or energy to pull it off. In fairness, they gather a little momentum as their set goes on and end with a warm applause.

We’re feeling a bit sticky from the heat and badly need a lift by this point. Queen Kwong duly oblige. Pulling no punches, they launch into the menacing instrumental opening of Prehistoric Blues from new album Love Me to Death, before a ferocious Callaway howls, 'You better shut your mouth!' Dumping her guitar unceremoniously, she gyrates across the stage like a reanimated catwalk model for Newt, before the four-piece return to newer tracks.

The Happiest Place on Earth features weighty, groovy riffs, whilst Raptures shapeshifts from stormy and moody into an absolute rock'n'roll beast. The mesmerising steady stomp of Bells On has the crowd swaying helplessly as Callaway fixes them like a cobra, mollifying them with her sultry vocal. Then she snaps them back into blinking awareness, yelling, 'But I’m a fox!' as she grabs a tambourine and catapults herself onto an amp (almost taking out an unsuspecting photographer).

It’s a surprisingly short set, with next track Purrfiction proving to be their last. Both drummer and bassist casually discard their instruments and slink away, leaving only the guitarist whose squealing lead bounces off the walls, and Callaway teetering on a monitor whilst uttering melodic incantations. Without another word they're gone and the watchers disperse, grateful they endured the sweltering setting.