Wild and ferocious, the boys from the better land carved ‘Dublin City’ into the heart of Manchester as they debuted their three-night residency. Fans venture from every inch of the map as the capacity of Aviva Studio reaches its limit. Feeding the 5,000, this crowd came with an appetite starving for a show. It’s clear to see Fontaines D.C. have made a notable impression on this music driven city. Copycats swagger towards the stage, dripped out in their finest suits of neon. Confidence exudes with each strut, as if they were the frontman in the flesh. Not one of them will be harmed by any passing vehicles on their ventures home tonight.
Ceilings and spirits are high as a green-eyed curtain blinks assertively. The low-pitched riff that has the pivotal power to take you from a scale of bone-chillingly cool to a sweltering heat makes itself known. Along with an industrial unit of sound, the shadow of an inspector prowled from east to west, following the untamed shrills of the crowd. ‘Into the darkness again’, a taunting complexion peers through the looking glass. Romance blooms in motion. There is something in the atmosphere now; an aroma of excitement so vivid, it’s almost fearsome. The drums kick in at full force as gravity drags the curtain to the ground. Standing above all, they are a higher power. Fontaines D.C. are alive and worshiped.
With devious suave, Grian Chatten and his menacing men appeared before our very eyes. Only he could make a kilt and scarlet knee socks look so effortlessly cool. A true rock and roll star. Leaving no time for flies to settle on their clothes, they shake into ‘Jackie Down The Line’. The setlist commences with tracks from the rough and raring albums of A Heros Death (2018) and Skinty Fia (2022). Meandering from the statically rapid ‘Televised Mind’ with brain rattling percussion to the slinking character of ‘Roman Holiday’, this bands’ discography ignites a cult-like fever. Tossing to the other side of the coin, they digress with the tender underbelly of their fourth studio album, Romance (2024). ‘Death Kink’ wavers into a frenzy of ferocity, flaring supporters from the forefront to the faraway and back again.
As chained to the microphone chord as a baby to an umbilical, Chatten recites ‘A Hero’s Death’. Disjointed chords linger around a constellation of vibrant swoons. In utero and out, this mantra is an anthem for the soul. The hiss of “happiness ain’t all about luck” projects from the soul, snaking down the sleeve of his arm. A three-leaf clover branded on the skin of his wrist, he’ll always carry the symbol of Ireland. Transitioning to ‘Bug’ the room lit up in ambient shades of Carlos O’Connell pink. Calm and collected, the instrumentals transcend to a monumental pitch. If you know anything about anyone, it’s that this band goes big or goes home. With each lyric, chants of twisted poetry are echoed back to them.
O’Connell’s guitar, low-slung and stamped with ‘Free Palestine’ locates the silence to cease. Intangible to the amateur, his machine is cut from the strings of barbed wire. ‘Boys In The Better Land’ raptures down the walls. Dousing us in their poison of white lightning, they struck a match. Flames catching alight to the soles of our shoes, fans lunge into a fleeting episode of hysteria. Fresh, yet nostalgic acoustics claimed us into their dream. Everything they touch, including the stage, is made of gold. ‘Favourite’ makes every inch of your body ache in the bittersweetness of time. The silk of all-consuming happiness meets the grit of all-consuming sorrow. Beneath the weeps of a heavenly heart, a tear escapes our very own. It’s nothing short of beautiful. For four minutes, we are momentarily infinite.
Exiting the stage, the five sign off. Fooling no one, it was known we hadn’t seen the last of our finest crusaders. Unable to hold out, we are briskly reunited. The set is embroidered with finest details. A nursery mobile fabricated of two-headed pigs, balls of fire and everything in between are strung high. Basking in the light, they sing us a new-age lullaby. ‘In The Modern World’ defuses sweetly into ‘Desire’. Bleeding green, white and orange, the motherland courses through their veins. ‘I Love You’, a perilous ode to their identity, is the depiction of the Irish grunge that has an edge on the rest of the world.
Coming to a close, the colossal ‘Starburster’ submerges its claws into the masses. Equipped with a uniform of green balaclavas, we were bandits on the brink of a riot. It gives you an impressionable feeling of untouchability. Pointing down at anonymous individuals, like vigilantes, they pull convicts out of a lineup. Hearts pump with adrenaline and lungs pollute with smoke. A guttural wheeze respires after every ‘momentary blissness’. Their essence is a scandal with no apologies.
Leaking from the canister, green headed supporters trickle down the bustling avenues of the city. Perhaps it’s a concept or a feeling, but maybe romance is a place.
