There’s a magic to hearing music in such small audiences: Divine Comedy reviewed

Three shows in a week! Why, it was just like the first week of March. There was, however, little of that last-days-of-Weimar giddiness about these. How could there be, when there were 300-odd people dotted around Barbican Hall’s 2,000 seats, and 50 or so of us at Oslo — normally a packed, standing-only club — sat on stools, unable even to waggle a hip?

One felt sad for Working Men’s Club, a young quartet from Yorkshire whose first album — released earlier this month — had critics cheering. They should have been swanning around the country, heading off to Europe, maybe popping across the Atlantic, to play in New York and LA at least. Instead, their tour was three half-hour shows in one evening in a single London club.

There’s nothing terribly original about them — with their synths and their drum machine and their scrapey guitar and twangy bass, they cover the whole gamut of musical endeavour from Joy Division to New Order — but they do it well.

The Divine Comedy show was the best hour I’ve spent in a very long time

And, brilliantly, despite it being late afternoon, despite everyone being seated, despite the enforced distance between band and crowd (broken a couple of times when singer Syd Minsky-Sargeant jumped from the stage, which felt dangerous in a way it usually doesn’t), they made it feel like a gig. By the end, people were trying awkwardly to dance in their seats, Minsky-Sargeant had his top off, and the cheers were more than just grateful; they were genuine. Above all, it felt wonderful not just to hear but also to feel music at real gig volume, to feel the sensuous embrace of sound. And if Working Men’s Club can quieten their influences and let themselves be heard, then their future might be bright.