‘Has anyone got our new album?” asks Nothing But Thieves singer Conor Mason, stark amid the Academy’s murky mise-en-scene thanks to a shock of tousled blond hair. The reply is a lusty chorus of screams, and Mason allows himself a shy smile.
After the release of their self-titled debut in 2015, Southend’s foremost specialists in agitated but serious-minded guitar rock looked to be “doing a Bush” by accumulating enthusiastic fans in Korea, Japan and the US faster than they were doing at home. Their second album, Broken Machine, debuted at number two in September and marks a re-energised effort to win over the UK. On the evidence of this largely sold-out tour, it seems to be working.
Emotionally charged moshing may transcend language barriers but the time spent servicing those far-flung territories took a toll on the young five-piece. In a candid essay published last month to support World Mental Health Day, Mason described how he “crumbled” under the pressure of touring and considered leaving the band until he sought professional help. (Winningly, he also characterised himself as a less of a swaggering frontman and more of a “frontmum”.)
Nothing But Thieves may have pickpocketed from various guitar bands of the last two decades – a few modal power chords from early Radiohead, the cosmic-ray-infused riffage of Muse, even some of the baggy maximalism of the Music – but it is Mason’s shapeshifting voice that binds everything together, whether he is barking out a proto-rap on the Daily Mail-baiting Live Like Animals, or casually high-jumping into falsetto over the brooding bassline of Trip Switch.
There is a distinct sense of a band turning vulnerability into a strength. Soda, a sweetly melodic new track, has been so rapidly internalised by fans that Mason has the chorus of “I don’t want to be myself” sung back to him. Elsewhere, as on the zig-zagging Itch, the riffs boom and bounce like vulcanised rubber.
If this is a revised plan for world domination, the secret weapon might be sequencing: Nothing But Thieves save their most potent songs for an impressive final flurry. The cathartic Sorry resembles a particularly virulent splicing of Snow Patrol and Biffy Clyro, with a Killers-style guitar solo thrown in for luck, while their closer Amsterdam is an assured quiet-loud headbanger. At this rate, they might need to look for other planets to conquer.
- At Albert Hall, Manchester, on 8 November. Box office: 0844-858 8521. Then touring.
