"We were here about 18 months ago," offers San Fransisco's Ty Segall as he wanders on stage. "So it's great to be back." You can just about hear his voice over his guitar, which started howling and screaming with feedback as soon as he plugged it in, and won't really stop doing so for the next 45 minutes: there aren't any gaps between songs so much as moments when the torrent of noise from his amplifier becomes marginally less torrential.

His release schedule – four new albums since that last visit – suggests a certain urgency, but it's nothing compared to how urgent his brand of garage rock sounds. Tonight, it comes in astonishing 90-second bursts, his voice – which can harmonise as sweetly as it can scream – buried in echo, struggling to be heard over the racket his three-piece band make. He sounds like someone who's absorbed the entire history of snotty guitar rock – not just the obvious benchmarks, from the Sonics to Ramones via the Stooges and Black Sabbath, but chaotic 60s freakbeat and lo-fi 70s proto-punk outbursts like the Electric Eels and George Brigman – and now can't stop it spewing out, all at once, at ear-splitting volume. In a genre packed with careful, Sealed Knot-style recreations of the past, Segall's distortion-laden take on an old trick seems vital and alive

Pissed-off, fundamental, noisy, insistent: it's what people traditionally turn to when rock seems terminally bloated and boring and complacent, a kind of musical crash cart. Certainly, it seems impossibly exciting tonight. The audience become so agitated that, as Segall closes the set with the sludgy Wave Goodbye, they grab him and hoist him into the air, still playing. Restored to the stage, Segall hands the microphone to a member of the crowd, who unleashes a series of guttural screams. Segall keeps soloing away, a grin visible somewhere beneath the hair plastered to his face, the noise from his amplifier as torrential as ever.