Myself and 75% of Irish alt-rock quartet Skindive are in the car park of The Forum in London’s Kentish Town. It’s uncomfortably hot, the four rickety old chairs we are perched on have approximately 11 legs between them and our feet are resting on a low barrier that separates us from a sheer drop onto an ugly spaghetti junction of railway tracks through which an occasional train chugs lethargically. The very long, very sleek, black luxury tour bus in whose shade we are sitting belongs to another band: tonight’s star turns Living Colour. None of us is drunk, there are no naked ladies in the vicinity and the only thing we have to look forward to in the next hour is that most excruciating of rock’n’roll experiences: the sound check.

“You know lads, it’s moments like this that make all the shit worthwhile,” muses softly spoken songwriter, composer and guitarist Gerry Owens. Nobody speaks, but bassist Alan Lee and drummer Ger Farrell gaze into the middle distance and nod silently in agreement. Worryingly, none of them appear to be taking to the piss. You make a mental note to enquire later on just how shit “the shit” could possibly have been and then Gerry mentions in response to some other query that he was reared in Trim. Ah well, that explains it. At least he’s isn’t waving at the trains.

Danielle Harrison is shopping. Owens had always had it in mind to get a female on board, someone whose vocals could cut through the intensity of his trademark epic noise. Importing one from LA had never occurred to him, but after a string of would-be front women had been tried, tested and rejected, Danielle was recommended to him by one of the discarded aspirants. The songs were played down a phone line to LA, she flew over to audition and now the diminutive songstress hoves into view munching tofu.

Owens is intense but nice with it. You get the impression that supporting Living Colour tonight is the latest step in a carefully mapped out scheme drawn up years ago in Trim bedroom.

Step 1. Get a synthesizer from mum and dad when you’re knee-high to a grasshopper.

Step 2. Get more synthesizers.

Step 3. Get a guitar.

Step 4. Spend three years in London arsing about in an array of bands that implode after flirting with varying degrees of failure. Learn from the experience.

Step 5. Go home.

Step 6. Tape movies and listen to them on minidisc.

Step 7. Write epic cinematic rock-outs incorporating incendiary guitars, thunderous drums, trippy psychedelia, techno-laced grooves and orchestral layerings that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Bond soundtrack.

Step 8. Form a carefully hand-picked band of like-minded musicians and call it Skindive.

Step 9. Gig around Dublin in order to polish the act and make a preposterous pact not to sign for anyone other than your idol, Chris Blackwell, founder of Island Records and Palm Pictures.

Step 10. Sign for Chris Blackwell, founder of Island Records and Palm Pictures.

Step 11. Record a jaw-droppingly exciting eponymous debut in a converted stable in Carlow.

Step 12: Take it on the road and see what happens next.

So far so good then, eh Gerry? “Yeah, so far so good,” he smiles. “I spent my entire life from when I was a kid waiting for the day when I was signed and making my first album, so I wasn’t going to blow it when it finally happened. It was 13-15 hour days for a year and it was difficult, but I’m very, very happy with the album. We were continuously pressured to put much more pressure on ourselves. That’s a very big aspect of my character… of all our characters. We’ll work until we drop… until we achieve everything we need to achieve. I like very complex scenarios in every respect: musically, visually, emotionally. What’s exciting about music is pushing boundaries. Climbing on someone else’s bandwagon doesn’t interest me. It doesn’t interest any of us.”

Such talk is cheap, but it soon becomesapparent that Owens and his cronies aren’t just mouth and no trousers. Watching Skindive hold a heaving Living Colour audience in slack-jawed thrall with their FX and loop-laden anthemic rock-outs a while later you realise that here is a band teetering on the brink of something special: “Look, look, they’re all listening!” shouts Danielle’s friend Sonja, grabbing my elbow midway through the set and directing my attention to the very pleasantly surprised and appreciative throng behind us. “Make sure you mention that even though they were only the support act, everyone was listening.”

And watching. Skindive look a class act too. The imposing Farrell drives relentlessly from the back, while in appearance, bassist Lee has a touch of the James Iha-s about him and has clearly graduated with honours from the same school of scissors kicking as Nicky Wire. Owens’s flailing scarlet tresses and fret-board cut a swathe through the fog billowing from the smoke machine and Harrison is mistress of her centre stage domain, calling the shots with as much seductive up-yours aplomb as any Cerys, Roisin or Shirley.

You get the impression that after five years together, Skindive have reached something of a rock’n’roll crossroads. It could all go horribly wrong, but given the amount of work they’ve put in it could just as easily go right. Nothing has been left to chance and all the pieces are in place. They can sing, they can play and they look awesome. Certainly one of the most exciting act this reporter has heard or seen since his first encounter with some Super Furry Animals in 1995.

Don’t take my word for it. Buy their record, go and see them, then make them huge. Because you know lads, it’s bands like this that make all the shit worthwhile.

Skindive’s eponymous album is out now on Palm Pictures