Nothing More frontman Jonny Hawkins has his top off even before the show has begun, but it’s not just to show off his toned torso, or a reflection on the furnace temperatures down in the moshpit. (The modest dimensions of the jam-packed Dingwalls mean Hawkins’ signature Giger-esque scorpion’s tail prop has been halved in size.) No, his semi-nakedness reflects – albeit unsubtly – Nothing More’s own barriers-down, scars-bared earnestness. This is a band that doesn’t do encores, Hawkins declares, because “they’re fake”.
But, while the post-screamo landscape is awash with frontmen pinning broken hearts to their sleeve tattoos, there’s a sophistication to Nothing More’s angst that raises them above the tumult-tossed pit. Hawkins’ lyrics essay familiar terrain – heartbreak, emotional disaffection – but the likes of Do You Really Want It?, with its sober hook “Everybody wants to change the world / But no one ever wants to change themselves”, and lacerating relationship tale Go to War skilfully buck the genre’s tendency to adolescent self-pity. Partly, perhaps, because of age – the Texans have been toiling since 2003, escaping obscurity only after Hawkins swapped the drumstool for the microphone on their eponymous 2013 breakthrough.
However, it’s not just Hawkins’ maturity that has just secured the group three Grammy nominations. Their attack is ferocious – crashing-airliner riffage, dynamics that rephrase EDM’s start-stop rhythms and quiet/loud sonics in metallic tones, and even a very “djent” instrumental detour that sees Hawkins, guitarist Mark Vollelunga and bassist Daniel Oliver all assaulting a suspended bass guitar. But Nothing More leaven the melee with melody, often striking a balance between kinetic thrills and keening pop hooks with the skill of a Linkin Park. There’s even an honest-to-goodness ballad tonight, the acoustic, sensitive-rock-guy epiphany of Just Say When, which quickly devolves into a messily passionate moshpit/campfire singalong.
Before anyone can accuse Nothing More of cynically grabbing for the kind of audience that doesn’t need finger-in-a-power-socket blitzes between every chorus – an audience their Grammy nominations suggest is within their grasp – Hawkins is pummelling a snare drum and leading a gruelling slog through the closing Salem, a nod to the gnarly faithful. But it’s clear that crossover success is beckoning Nothing More, and latest album The Stories We Tell Ourselves – in particular the gentler moments sadly not aired tonight – shows they have the ambition and skill to vault across the pit to the promised land, should they want to.
