White Lung @ Soup Kitchen, Manchester, 5 November

Fireworks schmireworks. The fifth of November it may be, but White Lung’s punka racket is far from short of explosive qualities. Take the scorching heat of Down It Goes, with its pure pop fires burning brightly at the centre of Kenneth William’s venomous guitar scree. Or the near-casual glory of Just For You, where Mish Way’s peroxide insouciance works in tandem with tub-thumping blasts of gleefully dumb noise. In fact, take pretty much any track from their all-too-brief Deep Fantasy opus and get ready to duck for cover – yessir, Vancouver’s loudest make for one helluva combustible live act. It’s just a shame no-one told a cautious Wednesday night gathering.

Way does her best to ignite the crowd, of course. “If I’m gonna fuck you, you have to fuck me back!” she taunts, as the bemused Soup Kitchen giggles nervously and stares awkwardly at its shoes. Later, she demonstrates her observations of English audiences (to whit: natty dressers with a tendency to stand perfectly still, arms tightly folded across the chest) in a bid to generate some antagonism. But whether borne of polite discomfort, respectful awe or standard midweek blues, the moshpit manages little beyond nodding heads and cheery whoops.

Once resignation sets in, White Lung get on with the business of being brilliant instead, which suits everyone just fine. “Don’t take me,” growls Way during the incendiary I Believe You, “I’ll always win.” Such is her wide-eyed conviction, you’d be a fool to suggest that even these trying circumstances could possibly deny her victory. [Will Fitzpatrick]