Animal Collective, Kentish Town Forum

are one of those bands that, for all purposes, satisfy the criteria for musical calibre and talent though, for reasons unbeknown, remain beyond the reach of general knowledge. Perhaps because today’s mainstream is a reactionary, fickle manifestation, like that friend who changes the way he dresses depending on the people he’s meeting. The bane of the previous month will become the breakthrough of the next, and no one will blink an eye or particularly question when someone picks up the record by the band they potently hated last month. In this context, perhaps, Animal Collective’s relative ostracism is welcome. In any case, the Baltimore psychadelicans are provident enough to sell out the London Forum tonight, rife with eager faces awaiting the first renditions of ninth studio album ‘Merriweather Post Pavilion’. The deliberation is whether, live, the album relents merely to the remnants of 2007’s intrepid ‘Strawberry Jam’ tour, tweaked and refined, or assumes an entirely unique identity.

First, though, the murmurs dissipate to the jovial sound and presence of Dent May and his Magnificent Ukulele. And slightly taller companion on miscellaneous small instruments. Together, they form a tame, minimal yet never insignificant brand of entertainment. Dent’s inexorably distinct vocal curve, reminiscent of Morrissey more often than not, fascinates the larger dividend of those listening. It immediately reconciles the relatively humbling stage presence he assumes, as does the striking cogency of particular lyrics. But Dent is never as self-important - or, failing that - as nonchalant as you would expect. True, the lyrics are poignant, but stop short of attempting to be arresting. Similarly, the effortless small-town, marginally surf harmonies and ukulele flicks are indeed leisurely, but never reclined or written off. Unmistakeably, all are pleasantly placated.

Animal Collective, it seems, maintain a habit of creating records that are completely individual entities in themselves. No one album can be cogently compared to another, yet each is, conversely, immediately expressive of the band. Which is why some inverted concerns were raised over the fact that ‘Merriweather Post Pavilion’ was compiled in two weeks, during and after the tour for previous album ‘Strawberry Jam’. Nonetheless, the haste in composition was clearly of no consequence, with the album retaining the characteristic integrity of past efforts. It is this same penchant for adventure and exigency that resonates around the Forum tonight; the band, clearly, intend no compromise in rendering the venue, and sensibilities of the crowd here, entirely their own. Silently, almost undetected, the three approach the stage furtively. Geologist, on the far left, traverses his apparatus with an almost palpable fluency and, shortly after, the expeditious opening throes of ‘Lion in a Coma’ are heard. What entails is less a pedestrian ‘gig’ than an entirely enthusing auditory experience, the root of which is, plainly, the boisterous pantheism they preserve with what they’re playing.

As ‘Lion in a Coma’ stumbles seamlessly into iridescent centrepiece ‘My Girls’, it becomes incrementally apparent that Animal Collective, live, observe an insatiably strict notion of vocation. Everything here is intricately co-ordinated to augment the potency of the sound. For instance, the band, save for a few paltry flashes of strobe lighting during the panting ‘Daily Routine’, are completely shrouded in darkness. As a result, the music usurps the prevalence, and the trio are merely silhouettes of its influence. With the exception of vocalist Avey Tare’s bid to “save his chocolate rabbit” around halfway through, the band relinquish no time to speech, idle motion or recuperation; they perform flawlessly, and without pause, for heaving periods of time. Arched incessantly over their respective tinfoil equating machinery, no one here is in doubt over precisely how hard these men are concentrating. The effort, thankfully, imposes itself on the performance. The lack of recess between songs, made instead to erode into each other comfortably, creates the impression of a single, superfluous track, punctuated by Panda Bear’s somehow timely screeches. The ‘track’, eventually, asserts its full authority over us, where we become, on a completely rudimentary level, beguiled by its audacious demeanour and arrangement of beats not familiar to us. The reverie is lifted at the fading embers of ‘Brothersport’, and our autonomy is restored, but no one, fan or not, will leave completely untarnished by the past few hours. Animal Collective, veritably, are abstract, but never an abstraction.