The Julie Ruin @ Gorilla, Manchester, 4 Dec

From the far corner of the room – boys to the back – a rammed Gorilla prepares for The Julie Ruin’s first Manchester show. Expectation is high, chatter uncommonly low. Apart from, that is, two fellas who sidle in at the last minute from the rear doors and cast quizzical looks around. “What are they like?” Huh? “The band. What are they like? We got given two tickets outside. We just got into town – we’re working over here.” Erm, good question. Pop-punk, politicised, Kathleen Hanna..? One of them nods: “Kathleen Hanna. Cool.”

Anyway, despite their American accents, seems these two gents had the wrong Kathleen Hanna – easily done. Several songs in, when Hanna launches into the first of several lengthy and impassioned ruminations on the post-Trump world (“We’re so fucking happy to be over here right now”), they nearly choke on their warm English ale. “Change? Make what change?” one of them splutters. “We already made the change...” They scarper: the special relationship in a 2016 nutshell.

Hanna’s relationship with her audience, built on a rock-solid foundation of love and trust, allows for a compelling dialogue. She talks at length between songs, and the back-and-forth between her and keyboard player Kenny Mellmen works on the level of improvised comedy. For once, the only dissatisfaction with the chat-to-music ratio comes from – irony alert – a male voice from the front: “Play Rebel Girl!” he bellows. “Fuck you,” responds Hanna (though she later apologises). “I’m talking right now. I’ll play that song if I want to.” The intent of set-opener I Decide, one of several tracks from this year’s Hit Reset, can – it seems – fly way over the head of those not paying full attention.

That album shines tonight. All eyes remain on Hanna but The Julie Ruin are an exceptionally well-tooled live band. To Hanna’s left: the indefatigible Kathi Wilcox, the bassist who gives the music body and soul. Drummer Carmine Cavelli and guitarist Sara Landeau play with energy and guile. They create a twitching electricity that powers Mr So and So, I’m Done and the album’s chillling title track.

The latter, an unflinching document of the abuse Hanna suffered at the hands of her father as child, is annotated tonight by her incredulous recollections (“I was a drama queen, apparently – my mother had the smart idea of dealing with it by having a fucking suggestion box in the house") of those years.

Elsewhere, the set explodes in unexpected and thrilling ways. A cover of Courtney Barnett’s Pedestrian At Best works perfectly: a cross-generational passing and acceptance of the baton. Radical Or Pro-Parental, from her out-of-print solo Julie Ruin album causes Hanna to gently mock Mellmen for his gushing intro (“I just think it’s fucking genius, seriously"). They exit with Oh Come On: the finest example yet of how The Julie Ruin fashion big ideas, big beats and big melodies into gleaming three-minute nuggets. A single encore of Bikini Kill’s Rebel Girl gets big mouth his wish, and the place erupts.

In this post-truth maelstrom, where rhetoric stomps ideas and politics is informed by blue chip interests rather than the lessons of history, bands that engage and connect at this depth seem worryingly lacking: both in number and in courage. When Hanna tonight sets off on one of many asides about the current state of the world ("We gotta talk about this fucked up shit, right?"), she expresses hurt, worry and fury, and her audience listens, learns and – hopefully – feels empowered.

She invites, of course, the girls to the front. She gives thanks for the range of ages present: “I’m 47. You guys here tonight in your 40s, 50s, whatever – you just keep doing your thing, keep coming to shows. Don’t stop.”

And, of course, she rails against the monster currently sacking her country and setting minorities running scared. “Fucking Trump,” she sighs. “I just fantasise about getting hold of him and, you know, holding him down. Of course, violence begets violence... but you don’t turn up to a knife fight with a handkerchief.” By now, those two disgruntled interlopers are long gone. Their loss, of course, but even they, had they prised open their minds just a little, might have had their prejudices tweaked by this vibrant and vital display of popular protest as art form.