New York’s Secret Machines have existed on the fringes of the indie rock scene for a while now, steadily refining their mix of krautrock beats, stomping choruses and a penchant for vaguely psychedelic wig-outs. Despite never quite managing to produce a career-defining album or break cover, they remain in possession of a core following that ensured Digital was not far off full capacity for the last show of their UK tour.

London likely lads the Filthy Dukes open proceedings with a dramatically shortened set due to ‘technical difficulties’, but do their best to make up for it with a spirited and beefy live performance.

More suited for club nights than rock band support, they have the crowd nodding along to their synth melodies and LCD Soundsystem-esque beats. All well and good. However, there’s no escaping that it’s a sound currently being done to death by the likes of Justice, Digitalism et al and you can’t help but get the sense that a little more musical experimentation, perhaps varying the tempo and the standard punk-funk beats, would help take them to the next level. That said, they’re a fairly young band, ones to keep an eye on.

Secret Machines take to the stage in an amber blaze of artfully lit smoke-machine drama. Raising the anticipation a notch or two, they draw a feverish response from the die-hards in the front, polite applause from everyone else who heard ‘Alone, Naked and Stoned’ a few years back and wanted to find out more. For the next hour we’re pummelled by wild-haired sticks-man Josh Garza’s impassioned drumming, Brandon Curtis’s (strangely Billy-Joe Armstrong-like) nasal croon and a heavier, more direct sound than they ever manage to capture on record.Standout tracks from the last two records are given a run out, but the bulk of the set is devoted to songs from their recent self-titled album on World’s Fair. It’s a pleasant enough affair, the sprightly ‘Atomic Heels’ romps along merrily without ever really changing your world and that in itself seems to be the band’s problem.

It’s clear to me that their lack of scope, lack of daring to do something outside their cosy, shoegazey oeuvre will only consign them to history sooner or later. Track upon track is built upon one (admittedly solid) beat that the band ups and downs over as the song progresses.

After half an hour this begins to get tiring and my mind starts to wander. An encore of the aforementioned ‘Alone…’ brings a smile to everyone’s face and after melting eardrums with a standard rock ending composed of squalling feedback and random noise, they receive hearty applause for steadfastly doing their best.

Trouble is, it’s not really good enough.

Words by Jody White
Photography by Rob Thomas