Oneida

Not a great deal makes sense in the decibel-blasting world of Oneida. They hail from the now-hip confines of Brooklyn, yet over countless records have never managed to become more than a cult phenomenon. Their superhero pseudonyms – Kid Millions, Hanoi Jane, Bobby Matador, et cetera – conceal the fact they’re actually fairly bookish models of American indie-rock males who talk like excitably stoned surfers. Weirdest of all, they’re celebrating a decade in business with a couple of US shows and, now, a three-date tour of Ireland. Perhaps it’s for the Guinness.

Just maybe they’ve consumed ample amounts in Dublin too, given the semi-comedic pre-song running banter theme soon becomes "Let’s get this Friday night started!” – it is, reality fans, actually Saturday (like, whoa, dude!). There’s plenty more whacked-out stage chat from where such wisdom came from, but that all sounds like an ant yelling across an abyss after the whacked-out space dust noise it’s sprinkled between.

Ten years is a damn long time in music and Oneida have reflected that by never standing still long enough to gain a handle on exactly what they are, beyond an ass-kicking rock band. Own a couple of albums and you’re only partway there. And now there are two additional members, with respective form in Ex Models, Trans Am and The Fucking Champs.

So it’s little wonder much of Oneida’s set – irritatingly clipped by an early curfew – is largely indistinguishable, chunks of new material tested on a willing crowd. Early on, the premature curtain threatens to prove a semi-blessing as a section indebted to the distinctly post-punky shades of New York City roundly fails to go anywhere too exciting. Bobby Matador, by now bereft of rock-hampering spectacles, soon announces from behind his keyboard the time has come for “the rock ‘n’ roll”, though, which is where it gets really interesting. Half an hour of glorious twist-turning krautrock-kissed party-rock later and ‘Sheets Of Easter’ grinds itself into the ground with resolute economy.

“Dude! That was sweeeeeet,” the huddled members of Oneida are overheard to burble post-encore. And, and on the whole, they’re not far wrong.

Photo: Kurt Buhagiar