Basslines seeped in before the lights remembered to dim. “Space Between Us” wasn’t a statement opener; it just appeared, like condensation on the inside of the venue’s lungs. Franc Moody never rush the ignition—synths flickered gently, vocals curling around the groove, which settled into the chest more than the ears. The crowd knew what to do: not cheer, not pose, just move. Shoulders first. Then hips. Then everything.
By the time the second track landed—“Going Through the Motions”—the floor had warmed to body temperature. People were dripping and smiling. The music took on this slow, elegant strut, a kind of self-aware slickness, drenched in analog warmth. Lights pulsed in time with the snares. Not harsh—glowing. The stage didn’t dominate; it invited. Franc and Moody hovered at the centre, more instigators than frontmen, flipping switches and threading melodies between each other like it was a shared private game.
“Chewing The Fat” tore that all up. The mood snapped into something toothier, denser. That bassline moved with a heavy grin, all grit and posture. Percussion turned punchy. The groove had an edge now, something unshaven beneath the polish. The crowd responded instantly—feet lifted, the centre of gravity tipped forward. It was physical now, communal, each downbeat a kind of group decision.
“In Transit” extended the heat. A more liquid track, stretched out live into an elastic jam that swelled around the crowd. Every synth filter felt hand-cranked, every delay line tweaked mid-flight. The band plays tight, but not rigid. The timing breathes. You can hear when someone finds a pocket and stays there too long on purpose, daring the others to shift around it. It’s a kind of choreography, but with attitude—groove as conversation.
There was no break, just a slide into “Dream in Colour.” Bright and blown open, it widened the whole room. If “Chewing” was a basement, this was a rooftop. The crowd lifted accordingly. People leaned into the melody, eyes half-closed, limbs loose. Someone waved a sequined jacket like it was a flag. Someone else just twirled, slowly, over and over. The band gave space here—stretching choruses, letting guitar flickers echo, giving synths room to bloom and fold. Every beat glistened a bit.
Later, “Driving On The Wrong Side Of The Road” shifted the temperature. Not darker, but more internal. The track coiled inward, the rhythm less urgent, the harmonies richer. This was the recalibration moment—the midpoint exhale where you check if your legs still belong to you. The vocal delivery here hit differently, like it came from closer to the sternum. The crowd didn’t still; they swayed, heads nodding, eyes on the stage or on nothing in particular.
There was a new track slipped in—maybe called “Mass Appeal”?—with a warped bassline and this twitchy percussive undercurrent that wouldn’t quite settle. The groove felt slippery, like it was trying to dodge its own loop. People danced to it anyway. Of course they did. Franc Moody don’t give you permission to dance; they give you no choice.
Then came the pause. The moment the lights faded just long enough for doubt to creep in. It didn’t last.
“Dopamine” landed like it had been waiting all night. No ramp-up, just instant brightness—horns slicing through like sugar knives, synths crackling, bass bouncing like a trampoline in an earthquake. The tempo pushed forward, but the crowd stayed loose, arms overhead, singing, moving, forgetting. It was the payoff track. Not because it was bigger or louder—but because it was freer. The chorus hit, and every person in the room found someone’s eyes to lock into. That was the spell. This wasn’t performance anymore. It was chemical.
The ending didn’t feel like an end. The band left but the lights held. The crowd stayed in their groove outlines, slower now, flickering. I watched one girl mouth the final hook to herself, hands still moving. People didn’t head for the exits. They lingered, unsure if it was over or if they’d just stopped needing the music to keep dancing.
Outside, the night was too cold for this much glow. Synth loops rang in my ears all the way down the stairs, into the wind, through the tube barriers. I could still feel the floor. Still feel the backbeat pacing somewhere near my spine. The show finished. The rhythm didn’t.
Words & Photos by Richard Isaac
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