Having cemented house music in the centre of UK pop’s firmament, the duo return on the eve of the release of their second album, Caracal. They’ve been scathing about the “press play” performances of their fellow dance megastars, and so have set up an array of very tangible kit: dinky cymbals, drum pads, guitars and synths.
It’s an odd pose: despite being 21 and 24, the Lawrence brothers are hauling a rather middle-aged sense of authenticity on to the dancefloor, as if dance music is debased by putting one’s hands in the air and letting off pyro. What actually matters, though, is melody, rhythm and experience, however it’s delivered, and these prove variable.
It doesn’t matter too much that Sam Smith isn’t there to sing Omen and Latch. The former has its juddering squelch smoothed out, but it’s still glorious to hear it on a PA. The best soul singers share their pain with the world, but Smith is so often caught looking in the mirror – the Lawrences brilliantly coaxed him out of this self-regard.
Other tracks do have their singers appearing live, the Brit School-ish likes of Kwabs, Lion Babe and Nao, but when the songwriting is as weak as it is on Superego, you wish they hadn’t turned up. Howard Lawrence’s own vocals are serviceable at best, but do give Jaded an everyman heft; the best guest is Brendan Reilly, who sails in and out of falsetto wearing a hat that is surely tit-taped to the back of his head.
The brothers’ pursuit of authenticity reaches an idiotic dead-end during Nocturnal. To keep our attention in minutes five to seven, they clamber on to a podium to play guitar together, as if in a 60s covers band on a too-small cruise ship stage. A rustling top note emerges as buttocks clench across the venue as one. But then a stretch of Berlin-grade techno, with Bang That and When a Fire Starts to Burn, elevates the set – and suddenly the pair no longer look like they’re fussily playing their instruments, but that the instruments are playing them.
