Stars: ****

Seven kung fu-obsessed rhymers slowly take to the stage over a crunching backbeat laid down by crowd-warming DJ Mathematics and I have a simple revelation. When RZA suggests we Bring Da Ruckus, he is not be made a fool of.

When DJ Mathematics takes a solo spot, kicks his shoes off and mixes with his feet, he should not be hindered.

As the MCs call ‘Wu!’ and the audience respond ‘Tang!’ and the gentleman beside me begins to twerk joyously (agh, my eyes), the Clan must not be inconvenienced.

When the octet pay tribute to their late comrade Old Dirty Bastard with a rendering of Shimmy Shimmy Yeah or when they leave the amazed crowd respectfully shaping their digits into a Wu Tang symbol above their heads, they are not to be trifled with. Basically, Wu Tang Clan ain’t nuthin’ to fuck with... and the crowd agree. Brilliant.