Let me preface this review thus: mostly everyone at this show loved it. That’s what happens when people buy tickets to a band they want to see. Freaky, really. Anyway! I’m neither a curmudgeon, nor a contrarian, nor do I “hate everything”. I am just clearly not in the demographic, People Who Love This Band, or Whatever Other Band Pitchfork Says Is Cool. I am also, judging by the crowd, old.

Though, I really enjoy CYHSY’s first, self titled record whenever I hear it. So much on that album is cute, and lovely, and fun and everything that good indie pop should be. Guitars sparkle. Drums chug brightly. Funny then that while Pitchfork gave it a hallowed 9.0, the same year it included – œClap Your Hands!’ in the Top 15 Worst Releases of 2005. Fickle are the gatekeepers of the sacred doors to the subculture, no?

“Is this your bag?” I ask my compadre as the crowd laps up the opening number.

“It sounds like something on the O.C.” they shout.

The US version of the Office, actually. But still an apt description.

“Is he auditioning for Placebo or what?” they ask of frontman Alec Ounsworth.

“No, the Violent Femmes.”

CYHSY are not a live band, that is clear. All the things that sound great on record are completely absent live, lost in a mire of drowning, bass heavy frequencies which obliterate the keys and lead guitar. The drummer turns his snare off for every second song, making it near impossible to hear. This is the fault of the engineer and not the band, I agree. A text message tells me – œit sounds much better in the bathroom!’ which undoubtedly is true. The higher frequencies bounce around and the bass is negated through the walls. Damned if I’m hanging out in the Metro toilets to hear a show properly, however.

I know this music is fun, and that’s the whole point, and good job everyone who danced around spastically and had a great time – “The Skin Of My Yellow Country Teeth’ was hard to resist – but on the whole it was supremely underwhelming. Loose, and not in a good way. Ounsworth’s vocals and posturings are so affected and well, whiny, as to be painful. When two girls who looked barely 16 made it up on stage and goofed for their own camera on the lip of the stage while paying the band absolutely no attention before being gently pushed back into the crowd by a roadie, it seemed to sum up perfectly just how un-rock and roll the whole thing was.

Two thirds of the way through the show and a lot of people are leaving, streaming out into the night. I was really keen to see this band – anything with this much hype must be good, right? No. I wish I could have written this as Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, That Was Brilliant! But alas, – œtwas not to be. Come see us in 30 years CYHSY, and I will gladly be proven a rube.