TJ'S is a brilliant venue. On the outside, it's unassuming. On the inside, it's basically a tree. It's run by this huge Welshman who treats all the bands to first-rate victuals back at his place before putting them through their paces onstage. The ambience here is part dingy Indie introversion, part beery rugby club swagger. Oddly enough, it works.

Grant Hart reminds me of a cow. He's pleasantly portly - a great, affable chunk of a man with arms as thick as most legs. Many will remember him as the drummer of a pioneering American noise band called Husker Du, but he's always been a songwriter and tonight is all about his songs.

The Nova Mob shamble around for ages before they deign to pluck a note. Grant lays his plectrums out meticulously among glasses of water and little bottles of pop. There's no alcohol now (he's quit), but ciggies are legion. Big Welshmen holler for action while the band shuffle set lists and smoke. Then Grants smirks, arches himself over his guitar, flicks out a chord and they're off.

The sound they make is exactly what we expected. Exactly the sound we hoped for, the sound we knew they were capable of making; a dense, intense musical evocation of America. With Grant monitoring and manipulating, they hover effortlessly from desolate, spiritual blues to maudlin folk, the fired-up, wired-up country rock.

And even as they are deliberately raw and primitive, the musicianship is breathtaking. Mark Retish, charged with the unenviable task of drumming for band fronted by a revered drummer, is a raging storm of sticks behind his kit. Tom Merkl, cradling his instrument close to his chest, has learnt how to make his bass sing low one minute and spurt chunky funk the next. Chris Hesler, newest addition to the Mob, plays all the incredible guitar parts while Grant fingers his strings without fuss, as if fiddling with an itchy limb, channelling his energy into smouldering, smoky vocals. Lost in his own history.

Much of tonight's material is new and the forthcoming album promises a diversity of riches. Of the old stock, '2541' is a grand, swollen take on its recorded incarnation, with Grant conducting a well-versed male voice choir through the choruses.

Dragged back for a double encore, they treat us to a tender version of 'The Main' from Grant's solo album and a rousing stomp through 'The Last Days of Pompeii', complete with an earsplitting simulated volcanic eruption as the finale. Your correspondent is delerious with delight.

Prepare for Nova Mob rule.