There’s a close symbiosis between the chest-beating music of Irish behemoths the Script and the pop-rock theatre of their live shows. Their fourth album, recorded on tour, sometimes immediately after coming offstage, blurs the distinction further; every hook is seemingly written with a choreographed stadium pose to match, every lyric directed towards an imagined sea of mobile phones. It’s efficiently done of course, and shifts mood smoothly from the jaunty Dublin knees-up of Paint the Town Green to string-laden sob rock on Without Those Songs. But like the pseudo-profundity of its title, it amounts to very little.
