Near-Biebermanic hysteria greets Syd Bennett tonight. The Internet’s singer arrives on stage like a truant skatekid in her oversized hoodie and two-tone mohawk, but it’s her honeyed, gossamer vocals that illuminate the broken heart beating within the group’s ethereal, neon-lit funk, investing them with mystery, humour and carnal hunger. That’s the reason for the frenzy in the audience.
Often, though, the Odd Future-affiliated collective feel like a hothouse flower wilting away from the studio’s protective environment, their conventional guitar-drums-keys setup cursing their celestial soul with feet of clay, while Syd’s voice – multi-tracked and artfully arranged on record – frequently proves vaporous and elusive, lost to the cavernous room. A keyed-up audience sing along to most choruses and several verses, papering over the gaps. Less partisan ears, however, strain to detect the group’s fragile magic.
The moments when the group do connect with their muse – the hypnotic Girl, Syd lost in bottomless lakes of longing; Just Sayin’, emboldened by a bolshy, righteous hook of “You … fucked … up!”; a wall-shaking blast through Get Away, Syd surfing the outreached arms of her ecstatic crowd – are impressive, teasing glimpses of the sublime they conjure in the studio, but that mostly eludes them here. And when Syd provokes a mass outbreak of amateur video-recording with a heart-stopping take of Insecurities (from her solo debut Fin), it seems a salient metaphor, as the Internet’s performance is too often like those smartphone videos – a frustrating, clumsy facsimile of a very real thing.
• At Scala, London, 10 and 11 April. Box office: 08444 771 000.
