As if acknowledging that hip-hop's most notorious brigands were in town, a police van lurked conspicuously outside the Shepherd's Bush Empire before and after last night's Wu-Tang Clan show. As if to heighten the point, on the way in I was subjected to a body search so thorough I half expected to be asked to share a post-frisk cigarette afterwards.

Alas, inside was a rather more telling indication of the once unstoppable ensemble's current status when two of the Empire's four levels were closed, while those that were open were hardly crammed. They are the Clan that time forgot.

Naturally, the Staten Islanders, who admit rehearsing is an alien concept, made things difficult for themselves, arriving an hour late and neglecting to trouble themselves with such things as production values, hence a wretchedly muffled sound. Roadies shuffled slowly but ostentatiously across stage mid-song bearing towels and, unforgivably for an act not playing a youth club, there were insufficient microphones to go round.

Yet for all that a Wu-Tang Clan show is merely anything between four and 12 unchoreographed, scrotumclutching men standing on stage shouting, they were eye-poppingly watchable and there were moments of breathtaking, exhilarating wonder from the delicious vocal interplay of Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nuthing Ta F'Wit and Triumph, to the fearsome Protect Ya Neck and the relatively considered It's Yourz, where even the peripheral, hitherto sullen Raekwon blossomed.

The evening, though, belonged to their Stakhanovite heartbeat, the lanky streak of charisma that was Method Man, whether rapping as if he cared, clambering up the speakers or repeatedly throwing himself into the audience without safety net or security. And with midnight fast approaching, he finished proceedings abruptly with a brusque, "peace: y'all be good", before remaining on stage alone, shaking the hand of seemingly every audience member.