It's currently fashionable to deride the post-rock movement as a stomping ground for stoic naval gazers hawking an unpalatable "ugly is beautiful" manifesto, terrified of melody and incapable of crafting a serviceable pop hook.
Undeniably, in its most extreme manifestations - notably the indigestible neo-jazz patented by Chicago scene gurus Tortoise - the genre tilts distressingly towards listless self-parody, gnawing at the boundaries of convention and taste, boring to tears all but the most committed.
A rare and precious dissenting voice amid Dublin's present crop of wannabe-Jeff Buckley hipsters, the Redneck Manifesto are steeply indebted to first-rank post rockers, such as Glasgow's Mogwai and Canada's God Speed You, Black Emperor!.
A recent, widely acclaimed debut album, Thirtysix Strings, was a throbbing, visceral howl from the outer reaches refreshingly bereft of affectation or bombast.
On stage, the quartet ebulliently straddle the uncertain line blurring experimental rock and leading-edge dance music. Opening with a ferocious feedback blitzkrieg, the Rednecks segued into a flurry of stark, rhythmic grooves redolent of techno nihilists the Aphex Twin and Boards of Canada at their most uncompromising.
Elsewhere seismic chord changes lumbered and bellowed like primordial monsters.
Softer interludes proved equally entrancing; a creepy down-tempo shift might have been culled from the score to a John Carpenter movie. Throughout, the group peppered their performance with wry, deprecating commentary. Here, at last, an avant garde ensemble willing to acknowledge rather than confront and infuriate an audience.
The Rednecks' discordant, bass-heavy blueprint is unquestionably an acquired taste. Those yearning for music as intelligent as it is unconventional and unfathomable, should explore further.
