Explosions In the Sky’s Munaf Rayani may well extol the “magnificence” of Kensington Gore’s Royal Albert Hall, prior to launching into a thoroughly uproarious rendition of Tangle Formations – taken from their ineffably breathtaking latest, The Wilderness – although the noun is best applied to he and his Texan cohorts tonight. For diminutive though they may appear, dwarfed as they are by the vertiginous immensities of this incontrovertibly superlative venue, Explosions In the Sky’s pomp – and, on the evidence of this evening, this is very much what they’re in at the minute – completely eclipses this seemingly indomitable setting, their show overshadowing all…

Of course, it’s testament to the Texans’ immense, if not immeasurable creativity (and credibility, too) that tonight has long since sold out; however, given the growing prominence of post-rock in the UK, this perhaps isn’t as surprising as it might otherwise seem: no longer the preserve of subterranean cesspits, swiftly transformed into bloody musty pools of sweat and tears, festivals such as ArcTanGent and, to a slightly lesser extent, ATP have brought what was once a rather maligned, and decidedly underground genre right out into the light of the Mendips and Prestatyn alike. Currently, the latter festival lot aforementioned may not be going from strength to strength, as are Rayani et al., although it is they – admittedly, in cahoots with Metropolis Music – who’ve promoted tonight, once more arising like some malformed phoenix from post-Pontins turmoil, or akin to an incredibly trebly, cochlea-uncurling crescendo from Austin silence. (Incidentally, and excuse the exclusivist in-jokery but, the Royal Albert Hall toilets are equipped with Dyson Airblade hand dryers! And having nipped out to relieve myself as the result of a few too many £4.50 pints, upon returning to the auditorium, its scarlet carpets even carry that idiosyncratic, if faint whiff of foul, apparently porcine meat reviled down in Minehead, yet somehow, now fondly reminisced thereabout!)

It may be the band’s seventh release, but The Wilderness lacks none of the eruptive volatility to have made so many so fond of, say, The Earth Is Not a Cold Dead Place, or All of a Sudden I Miss Everyone in the first instance; and, despite having been dearly missed in their protracted absence since Take Care, Take Care, Take Care (2011), it’s those five numbers rounded up from this month’s indisputable masterpiece which, irrefutably, fare best, garnering fine reaction indeed. Beneath these overwhelmingly bluish hues, maladroit drum machines anchor Mark Smith’s chiming, coruscating guitars during The Ecstatics, breaking up the breathtaking clamour of a breathless opening half-hour as they do so. I’ve been waiting the best part of a decade to revel in The Birth and Death of the Day, live, although the dichotomies between tranquility and tumult that have been so perfectly encapsulated in their latest eclipse this tour de force, also.

It’s not all about The Wilderness, however: under reds deeper than Michael James’ profoundly affecting rhythmic work, Greet Death is cinematic enough to make Ennio blush, and proves evocative of The Sea and Cake cavorting with stodgy, doom-alluring grandeur in the rear of an immutably modified Delorean; meanwhile, Let Me Back In tonight nods to labelmate Alex Scally, yet still – as though shushed into submission; very much a rarity within any which London venue, no matter its size nor stature – is every tongue, with not one set to wag throughout. Heads both thrash and bob, and, in what is more or less a solitary qualm with this evening’s performance, songs of such unswerving resplendence probably deserve more than mere, motorik knee-bending, head-banging, blah, blah, blah on behalf of their performers. But for the ninety minutes that Explosions In the Sky grace this stage, they maintain our attentions as might fireworks, meteorite showers, ephemeral, fleeting Northern Lights, and the like; these contemporary symphonies are forces of nature, and are surely to be reckoned with…

I, for one, reckon that the combative, turbulent Disintegration Anxiety owes Battles a spectacularly profound debt of gratitude, its closing moments absorbed by an iPhone-infatuating polychromy; by contrast to so much of The Wilderness, Colours in Space pertains too much to some kind of reductive, if accurate parody of GY!BE to be admired on its own merits. But the point around the four-minute mark, at which Logic of a Dream relaxes, luxuriating in an oneiric quietude, more than makes up for any slight missteps; moreover, it’s made all the more enamouring by the absence of the strikingly astral Landing Cliffs from tonight’s set, but still, it towers high, and mighty, and mighty high above even the dizzying Gallery which hangs overhead.

And then, from mile-high galleries, to doting, gawping Rough Trade East attendees dotted among racks of – rather suitably – post-rock CDs, Explosions In the Sky implode like the massive stars they’ve seemingly become, reverting from the sublime to the ridiculously minuscule. Their “second instore in about fifteen years,” the proceeding evening emits an intensity equivalent to that of a newly formed neutron star: beginning, gloriously, with Logic of a Dream, nuchally located repetitive strain injuries inspired by the night before flare up almost instantaneously; later, both The Ecstatics and Disintegration Anxiety are duly reprised. But, if Explosions In the Sky’s live show is infinitely better suited to, again, infinitely more sizeable spaces and stages than those of E1, then this evening’s respective setlist goes some way toward suggesting theirs are records which, essentially, sell themselves.

Granted, in order to gain entrance tonight, purchase of The Wilderness was inescapably necessary; however, while many contemporaries might have taken the opportunity to bombard this most ardent of audiences with a slew of all-new material, Austin’s finest do no such thing, with both Catastrophe and the Cure and Memorial benefitting from tribal, militaristic snares, played as though something fairly seismic depends upon it. The feeling that they don’t have to go through the instore rigmarole is, therefore, palpably apparent; however, the feeling that they want to, in order to repay the patience and appreciation of their abiding devotees, is commensurately so. And to go from seeing them from the back of the Royal Albert Hall one night, to being in such close proximity to examine their matching wrist tats the next really is, as Rayani himself states, “a treat.” That we’re treated to Your Hand In Mine in Rough Trade East, during which messages declaring undying love are sent in numerous disparate lingoes, makes it all the more so, and compels me to think they ought to make their third instore appearance posthaste. Regardless, irrespective of whichever venue they may play, as thoughts and feelings of life and death, and love and loss flick through your mind, eyes and mind’s eye, like imagery ripped from Karl Lemieux’ flickering reels, Explosions In the Sky affect and fully captivate like few others seem able these days. “Magnificence,” therefore? That ain’t the effin’ ’alf of it…