When watching DMA’s live in Manchester, a few things become apparent. Firstly, with the eardrum-shattering ring of applause after every song, the cascades of plastic pint cups volleying across the venue, and the band’s palpable confidence when gracing the stage of Manchester’s 02 Apollo, it doesn’t seem like an exaggeration to suggest that the Sydney-based band have made a spiritual home for themselves in Manchester. Parka-clad and adopting the swaggering walk so famously associated with Liam Gallagher, the band stampede through their up-tempo set as if playing a hometown gig. After all, it makes sense: marrying pint-prompted hedonism with starry-eyed naiveté, the band’s songs feel fit for the musical canon of a city equally enamoured with the nonsensical anthems of Oasis as it is with the literary languishing of The Smiths.
However, what also becomes apparent throughout DMA’s set is that they appear to attract a type of audience that isn’t the most fun to try to have a dance with. Whereas similarly raucous indie rock outfits can attract crowds of mixed genders and temperaments (Sports Team springs to mind), DMA’s crowd is overwhelmingly ‘lad’ orientated. When singer Tom Odell asks ‘can we dance to this mess?’ in the opening number ‘How Many Dreams?’, many audiences’ attempts at dancing to the so-called mess will be soiled by a half-full pint of lager to the head, or a bucket hat-wearing teenager who sees a mosh-pit as the perfect opportunity to express adolescent angst. The gig, more often than not, feels like a gathering of football hooligans, rather than music fans. During anthems such as ‘The Glow’ or ‘Silver’, I can’t help but notice an unneeded tension in the pit of the venue: a swarming of limbs, half dancing to the mess, half avoiding a fist fight.
Despite the notable toxicity present at the show, it would be unfair to review the band’s set without giving them the fair due towards their music. Whilst at times lacking a little in identity or originality, DMA’s live performance, like the majority of their records, feels like a greatest hits. Their songs boast soaring choruses, with Odell reaching notes that many of his Britpop idols would be struggling to reach, and jubilant guitar lines, owing to both the wiry mania of Graham Coxon and the hair-raising melodies of Richard Ashcroft.
The show reaches a heady high with the pairing of ‘Tape Deck Sick’ and ‘Fading Like a Picture’ the band sways in a bittersweet, chorus-drenched soundscape of lovelorn estrangement, before launching into an instant-classic for house party soundtracks everywhere. This band makes no bones about the fact that melodies come first – for DMA’s, it’s all about the gut feeling.
The new record, How Many Dreams?, which I carry out a deep-dive into here, is a welcome addition to the group’s setlist, seamlessly intertwining with established anthems. It sees the band venturing into more electronic spheres, while retaining their knack for guitars at the forefront of the mix. Single ‘Everyone’s Saying Thursday’s the Weekend’ sublimely concludes the set – a testament to how fans have taken to the band’s newer material.
Admittedly, I’d like to see the band go further stylistically, and include their Underworld-esque rave track ‘De Carle’ in the setlist – a brave move for any indie rock group – but the band understandably, yet disappointingly, stick to their strengths of sing-along lad-rock. It’s a blessing and a curse: the audience embraces the melodies they know and love, but are never really pushed out of their comfort zone. The band appear somewhat stagnant – there’s only so much credit you can give to the credo of ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’.
DMA’s are perfect for a drunken sing-along, a scrappy mosh-pit, and an invocation of 90’s nostalgia. As for much else? It’s probably best to look elsewhere.
