PHEW. Gasp. Choke. Wow. Flutter. Cough. Sob. Last night's Garbage show provided us with all these noises. For Butch Vig and his instrumental cohorts are big on sculpting deft soundscapes. As well as employing their crunching guitars to wondrous effect, they last night marshalled a battery of precise tonal washes, pulsing swooshes, and evocative little noise-scrapings. Subtly powerful; powerfully subtle. Pleasingly skewed, too.

Garbage invited us into their sonic foundry as it operated at full blast. Then they led us to its quieter corners, where owls hooted, a midnight wind rushed through rusted corrugated sheeting, and you could feel the slow glacial pull of primordial desire . . . whoops. Excuse me. I believe I've done gone ga-ga over Garbage. But audio-visual exposure to the band's frontwoman, Shirley Manson, can do this to a fellow, of course.

Blimey. A compelling waif, she slunk and prowled. Whilst employing the ironic vocal intonation of a latterday Debbie Harry on top Garbage tunes like Stupid Girl and Fix Me Now, Shirley performed a circular dressage routine, like a particularly sassy pony.

Crivvens. Jings. In response, young men removed their shirts and moshed themselves to a stage-front pulp at her feet. Meanwhile, elderly men were weeping inwardly and clutching their pint-glasses ever-tighter. Heck. Gulp.

Our own Bis, last night's opening act, were pure playground-punk-pop bliss - but Garbage? Whoo-hoo. Cor. Yum yum yum.