Already established as a quintessentially perky British pop outfit with understated successes charted somewhere between those of them infamous Arctic Monkeys and the now-anonymous Llama Farmers or the abominable Does It Offend You, Yeah? tonight smacks forthwith of insignificance for the affable Joseph Mount et al. Previous to any action whatsoever however, we wait. Patiently; anxiously; impatiently; exasperatedly. Cooped up in the claustrophobic stalls of the Academy for nigh on ninety, tonight's promoters must do some stirring trade in exorbitant pints – predominantly of Coke or equally effervescent quality – as pepped-up conversations spew: "I've never been to anything like this. Never", and so on and so forth. Truth be known, nor have we.
Thus with the night already deemed commensurate with that irrevocably awful 'first time' we're all destined for disappointment; doomed to be left feeling unfulfilled and slightly awkward. Indeed even gazing sheepishly about the place all and sundry over twenty must be left feeling not only crustily fossilised but alas also mildly paedophilic whenever any two sets of eyes converge. To quote our eulogised Mr. Mount, even attendance at this point feels like something of "a big mistake".
For years we've witnessed a phenomenon of poor attendance figures for the first act on as the hordes attempt to heave and ho through cluttered doorways yet with regard to Azealia Banks, the lack of queue out in the astonishingly clement February air suggests the masses have minimal interest in the vulgarity of this New Yoiker. That she engenders all manner of bemusement reinforces such musing as her potty-mouthed yapping appears to be promptly potty-destined. A purely extraneous, if potent exhibition of Banks' superlative vocal ability comes in the form of a cover of Wino's most lionised cover prior to alarm bells ringing in 212, the standout gratuitously and gruesomely mangled with The Prodigy's Firestarter. She barks of genitalia "getting eaten" and on this sort of showing you don't doubt she'd devour three or four TDCC aficionados alive.
The groggy bloke rawk of Tribes only accentuates the seemingly unnecessary endurance fest Metronomy have enrolled in and, over forty minutes, they're not merely workmanlike in attire but also in approach: they open with the bossa nova beat of the ever-slinky Some Written, prior to rattling through some of their finer moments with minimal fanfare yet maximum fervour. With adolescent amorousness abound, Mount's lyrics of exchanging numbers comprising only eight digits ring particularly germanely in this single sex and consequently sex-starved school social setting. The placid, buoy-like bounce of The Bay follows, and is abruptly succeeded by the disquieting thuddery of Love Underlined, Gbenga Adelekan's prominent bass octaves resounding as emphatically as the Grecian pillars that flank the Academy's monumental plinth. However having witnessed Mount gush his little Totnes heart out but last October all specialness is here stripped as he disparagingly murmurs: "We're called Metronomy."
Heartbreaker resurrects some zest, twisted with a hint of creeping anthemia although whether it be born of apprehension and/ or agitation the oft-imperious She Wants is left wanting. Off-kilter and out of time, it merely provokes further languor, its intricate lyricisms lost as though in foreign lands. The tide of The English Riviera then shifts in their favour as the rejigged acoustic lull of Everything Goes My Way tonight proves engrossing: Anna Prior, adorned in scale-like mermaid sequins, demonstrates she not only has two fully functioning legs but also a quite seductive swoon in her song. Its cuckoo-cooed backing vox and progressive lighting out of Bruce Gowers' pioneering Bohemian Rhapsody video lend it an element of the outwardly striking, whilst the sporty plod of Corinne is boosted by Guitar Hero crunch. Again however the feel is rough as if never ready, with the levels askew and its newfangled solo lackadaisical. A Thing For Me is introduced by an extraordinarily ominous intro, the quartet's chest lights oscillating wildly like wayward sky lanters frazzling on unearthed power lines. Its pastiche falsetto interlude recalls Vaughan's viral texting spree sketch, imbuing the accompanying smorgasbord of wild strobes with comedic edge. It fizzles out in a newly fitted Nintendo-esque outro, before Mount affirms to feeling "like Nirvana" in such celebrated surrounds. However the overriding disaffection of the set is compounded by his urging us to enjoy "Two Cinema Club [sic]" and although a typically celebratory The Look is greeted with merited jubilation to result in overwhelming exhaustion as they slump over the finishing line of a twelve-date jaunt, this wasn't the Metronomy we've learned to know and love. Call it an atypical evening; one "spent disappointed on dancefloors".
