Confirmation in the capital tonight that a victory lap can be exhausting. The 1975 are wrapping up their tour and they’re ready for a party. Pity that it seems to be the after-party in their sights.

The quartet have reason to celebrate, of course. Fresh- faced newcomers despite the moniker, they’re already topping the charts and winning hearts, as evidenced by the young, enraptured audience that pack the Olympia to the gills this evening. There’s a disconnect between the Beatlemania-style roars and relatively reserved musicians onstage, however.

Functional, adept players who perform their breezy, catchy tunes faithfully, they’re nevertheless stock still, monochrome, disinterested. A bit rent- a-band. This energy vacuum falling between stage and crowd seems to be located near the tousled hair of singer Matthew Healy. A coincidence, surely. For his part, Healy wraps himself around his mic stand, his practiced nonchalance becoming more organic as he works his way through the bottle of wine of which he seems reluctant to let go. He apologises, “but it is Dublin!” he adds.

As it happens, most of the audience probably aren’t of the wine-sloshing variety, theplace resembling some kind of Directioner decompression chamber, as teens discover guitars, drainpipe jeans and their musical identities.

For that, bands like The 1975 will always be handy starter-kit outfits. This version isn’t afraid of synths, earwormy guitar hooks and keening choruses. Stylistically, think the Kooks if they spent their summer holidays cleaning Simon Le Bon’s yacht for him. An internet age proposition, there’s also plenty of free and easy genre bending and pinching, with liberal doses of modern R&B giving things buoyancy and pep. Drummer George Daniel is no slouch, but Adam Hann steals this underwhelming show, his gnarled guitar lines lending an identity to the overly-polished numbers. ‘M.O.N.E.Y’ stands out, displaying the right kind of swagger.

When The 1975 tap into their Manchester heritage, they can bring the funk in a manner that recalls the infectious, concrete jungle madnessof The Happy Mondays and suggests every young Manc is born with a set of maracas. Yet true highlights are few and far between. It’s all a bit by-numbers.
The fans don’t care, and would probably still cheer even if the foursome only deigned to play b-sides and covers. It’s evidenced by the surprise and genuine glee when The 1975 return for an encore. Healy seems bemused. “We haven’t played the best songs yet!?”

Ah, that would be the hits. ‘Chocolate’ and ‘Sex’, two accomplished pop songs that tie sweet melodies to angsty, adolescent lyrics, do their job well. As the singer wraps himself in an Irish flag, The 1975 show they can provide last minute memories even in second gear. Like the titular subjects of their two anthems to date, they deal in carnal indulgence; quick pleasure hits. Whether they go the distance remains to be seen.