Gig review: Fontaines D.C. at First Direct Arena, Leeds

A large, starched tarpaulin is draped from the rafters long before the lights go down at the First Direct Arena. Blandly unassuming in its solid shape, it seems to be any other curtain thrown up before the headline act, to preserve the secrecy of a covert entrance.

But there is an altogether more foreboding quality to it when the venue is plunged into sudden darkness and a lime-green pulse seems to take over, horror-scape sonics and looming guitar chimes ringing out of the semi-darkness behind it.

Fontaines D.C., of all the post-punk bands to emerge from the genre’s latest revival in the past decade, were not the obvious contenders to reach enomo-dome status at the head of the pack.

But the Dublin five-piece, who have transmuted their sound from rabble-rouser diatribes to the glowingly cinematic goth rock they liberally serve from fourth and biggest record yet Romance tonight, have done so on what feels like resolutely personal terms.

This show, possibly their biggest headline date yet, comes in the middle of a winter run that has them straddling the line between arena stardom and something more. They already have a slate of massive outdoor shows set for next year; whispers of promising festival positions have begun to percolate around their name in hushed tones.

The hype is justified. In honing their earlier sound to a lushly multi-genre affair over their last two records, they have developed not only a catalogue of songs but the stagecraft slickness to land them at this level.

Jackie Down the Line packs a sheer wallop, as Grian Chatten – decked in full Bono shades – drawls into the microphone. Big Shot comes primed with swaggering brilliance, as does the profanity-laden Death Kink, its refrain hollered back with gusto.

There is little in the way of inter-song patter, save the occasional murmured gratitude, and any pause is taken for what seems to be technical troubles. But when the songs are this fantastic in their live execution, there is little complaint, as the p***-and-vinegar mosh of Boys in the Better Land and the jangle-pop of main set closer Favourite proves.

Starbuster, their latest and perhaps greatest contribution, fittingly closes matters out – and then they are gone, vanished into the night. They, and everyone else, have met the moment.