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This is perfect. Throughout the history of , their career has been a litany of near-disaster, scraps, implosions, injury, insult, chaos, threat, lunacy and drunkenness. It's entirely appropriate that this very last ever, one-off reunion show, three years after their split, encapsulates their very essence in one shambolic whole.

Midasuno's Scott Andrews (photo: )

Faces from the past decade of Welsh rock music litter the hundreds-strong crowd in the Millennium Music Hall to witness the original line-up blast through a 90 minute set of songs that is culled from all their incarnations.

When they first came on the scene, as fresh-faced, polite young Merthyr boys, it was their music which did the damage: all big riffs and massive sound, topped by Scott Andrews' caterwauling vocals. It was At The Drive-In rhythms and Black Sabbath heaviness, in thrall to Muse and The Wildhearts in a starkly original package that got them press coverage but little else.

As they matured, into their final incarnation, the power came less from the precision of their live playing than from the growing menace (albeit mostly comedic) from their increasingly bedraggled, sartorially-adventurous frontman. Like a Welsh Russell Brand without the benefit of the Priory - or, let's face it, the sex appeal - Andrews rocked heroin chic but with vodka taking the place of smack. The band seemed perpetually on the verge of duffing each other up or inviting the whole crowd outside for a dust-up.

Tonight, then, Midasuno - back with maths teaching guitarist Steve Hopkins to add some academic flavour to this most strange of brews - could go either way. Is it going to be a professional blast through giant riffs and the monster rhythms of drummer Matt Riste? Or is it going to end with injuries to band or audience? There was never any middle ground with them: even their disasters were spectacular.

Traditional opener Start The Riot is dispatched with passion and a decent enough crowd reaction, but the sound in here is muddy and ill-balanced, all drums and bass. The crunch of the dual guitars is lost. So far, so Midasuno. But when bassist Gavin Jessop launches his broken four-string across the stage (courtesy of a fan's chucked beer glass) and prowls, looking like he'd like to introduce the culprit to the finer points of Fender's build quality, things are poised. Andrews just laughs.

Support band Reaper In Sicily provide a replacement bass, and suddenly there's a frisson of excitement. During Samuel L a circle pit springs up that has sensible folk running for the sides. Ancient tracks The Art Of Fear and Lacerate/Break are dispatched to old-school fans' bellowed approval and there's a proper crowd-singalong for Don't Drive (Faster Than Your Angel Can Fly).

Other newer tracks such as Sister Temptation and A Machine: The Rhythm Thief are chunky beasts, but their crispness is somewhat lost in the fug of booze and compromised sound. Thankfully their warped melodies are still discernible.

If Midasuno were a new band, playing unfamiliar songs to a sceptical audience, this set would be dismissed - crazed, wayward playing with a swampy sound isn't going to win any hearts; but this isn't any other gig. As they launch broadsides from the stage, against anyone and everyone, including themselves, it's like they're inside their own coffins, nailing the lids down, gleefully complicit in their own demise.

But, appropriately, it's a triumphant demise. A final singalong to Tear's rallying, innuendo-laden refrain brings proceedings to a close, and the foursome take a bow. Slightly the worse for wear, but having pulled it off, somehow. It's been the final word, and the final word was obscene.

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