The million dollar question then: are sulky JJ72 heirs to Joy Division's dirge-rock crown or mere scrawny pretenders peddling a neat line in wintry bombast?
An eponymous debut album pulled both ways. Beatific singer Mark Greaney's propensity to over-emote eclipsed passages of austere beauty. Bloated with doomed-youth cliches, the record's unrelenting stoicism swiftly palled. In concert, the Dublin three-piece reveal a surprising knack for carbonated power-pop. Kicking off with a flurry of synth-drums, opener Long Way South mutates into a rumbling sonic behemoth, its effete dalliances submerged beneath a blizzard of corrugated riffs.
Snow, shy and pensive on record, is reborn as a slab of fist-clenching theatrics. Only a plaintive October Swimmer retains its stuttering grace.
Greaney and feline bassist Hilary Woods bear expressions of po-faced solemnity throughout. The gig has been touted as a triumphant homecoming but, a bout of grandstanding from drummer Fergal Matthews aside, JJ72 wade through the performance with a measured aloofness which threatens to alienate a rapturous audience clamouring for acknowledgement.
An extended feedback blitzkrieg closes proceedings. Greaney slopes off stage. There is, of course, nothing so fatuous or indulgent as an encore. JJ72 strive to move us with fractured glimpses of their heavy hearts. Unfortunately they've been wearing their troubles on their sleeves all night.
By Edward Power