There's a certain vastness to Clock Opera's anthemic big-pop, with its spacious build-up blips and whirling sentimental blops that seems daunting to translate live. Often the meticulous production of such a heavily layered aesthetic can swallow you whole in the comfort of the home, but lick limply at your face when played out live, with subdued beats, muted deliverance and restrained punch.

Equally, Clock Opera's recent album, Ways to Forget, was of course subject to the same dooming swarm of hype that engulfs many fledgling artists, a pressure cultivated over recent years that sees expectations raised to dizzying heights and bands grasping at a ghost popularity partially void of substance. Equally, just read NME's review of Clock Operas album for an example of the pure destructive powers the super-critic holds and the little care expressed for new acts in a heavily saturated scene. It's pretty harrowing really.

All this swarmed my head as Clock Opera filtered on stage; worries of longevity, pedestals they were strained to reach, the fear of the limp live show, but you soon remember these bands are all human, all different, all individual, regardless of genre bundling and wide framed comparisons. There's a story behind all the hailstorms of hype that's genuine to the bone, and that’s what deserves the time.

It's admissible that the band looses a smidge of their on-the-track edge live, it's certainly not as cutting or punchy, exact or demanding, but still remains wonderfully well sculpted and rich in fullness,with the tuned industrial beats and mechanised riff symmetry carrying a sense of purity, accessibility and exacting simplicity. There's flashes of Talking Heads in their on stage eccentricity and tight dedication to their instruments, which are caressed fruitfully throughout. Still, there is a slightly sluggish sense of repetition, as each song slots into an overarching, unswerving structure, a narrative overplayed. Perhaps it's the pop presence fighting for familiarity or simply an unwillingness to experiment beyond its boundaries, but either way, it was just a little static, without motion beyond small to big, or dark to bright, it lacked the subtler changes that add layers of intrigue and swarm beneath the exterior. Don't think there isn't something original and gripping though, it still stands autonomous and withstanding.

The Green Door Store isn't always the most jovial of venues, occasionally amassing a crowd of reserved cool-mongers scared the friction of dance may melt their exterior and Clock Opera were partially subjected to this stillness. Whether more movement would flow in a more liberal crowd I couldn't say but perhaps Clock Opera are more of an anthemic spectacle, an admired mechanical chaos, rather than a catalyst for groovy shapes and heavy dancing.

All in all it was a treat. Succinct and flattering, the execution was precise and slick, Guy Connelly’s beard full of body (perhaps more aptly named a face-forest) and life breathed, if a little subdued, into their debut album.

(Seriously though, it's worth it for the beard.)