Screaming Females @ Broadcast, Glasgow, 22 April

Marissa Paternoster is a force of nature. An uncontrollable bundle of energy and fire, squalling and hollering with gusto. She riffs like Josh Homme, solos like J Mascis and sings like… well, like very few people on earth. It’s a muscular warble; instantly arresting as it sends shockwaves rippling through lines like, ‘Why must I be the angry one?’ Screaming Females have spent most of their nine-year recording career being classified as punk, largely due to their involvement in the New Brunswick scene they call home, but while that may sum up their ethics, it gives little indication as to the metallic-edged melodicism that makes up the vast majority of their rock-drenched oeuvre. Screaming Females, y’see, are quite simply explosive – cluster-bomb style.

There’s more Mascis to be found in the Dinosaur Jr-esque I Don’t Mind It, with the Amherst veterans’ fuzz-covered introspection replaced by something bolder. Indeed, there are times when the band’s sound feels confrontational, but crucially without alienating the listener – their immediacy invites you in before clenching vice-like around your skull; the warmest, hardest hug you’ll ever receive.

To focus entirely on Paternoster’s whipcrack intensity, however tempting that may be, does a grave disservice to the heavy hits of drummer Jarrett, as well as bassist King Mike’s dual sense of drive and counter-melody. The consummate power trio, they’re at their best on riff-driven grooves like Empty Head, the opening track from recent sixth LP Rose Mountain, where nuggets of purest pop are to be found lurking behind molten power chords and nimble-fingered shredding. It’s a thrilling performance, with nothing so crude as an encore, but in between songs they offer little more than bashful mumbles of, “Thanks for coming!” One wag enthusiastically replies, “No problem,” rather neatly summing up the general feeling in the room. What a band.