I’ve never been a particularly big fan of the Astoria, least of all when it hosts supposed ‘punk’ bands. It just seems inappropriate to me for groups, comprising what ought to be by definition the most anarchistic of the genres, to be prancing around on a Globe Theatre sized stage, metres away from an audience already estranged by London’s exponentially rising ticket prices. Factor in a total absence of mid song banter coupled with a ridiculous 10:00 p.m curfew and you should begin to appreciate the dire circumstances plaguing tonight’s show. In fact, in terms of what I think a punk concert ought to be like, the gig was an absolute sham. Lest I award it the kind of mark you’d only expect from a truly arrogant & condescending reviewer, however, I’ll be kind and judge tonight against more general pop based criteria. Personally, of course, I think pop-punk is a paradox, but never mind that. On with the censure…

First up I have to confess somewhat to actually enjoying Hot Water Music’s set. It’s true they employ the same technique as practically every other popular punk band around today (regurgitate tunes someone else wrote within their own speed and distortion signatures… just so the fans don’t forget which particular rip-off they’re listening to), but it must also be said that HWM play with an uncommon amount of zeal and passion. Measured purely on an enthusiasm scale HWM get my vote as tonight’s highlight. Their ranting is somewhat comparable to that of a new age African American priest yelling psalm after psalm at his parishioners, blinding them with vociferous fanaticism without ever really saying anything at all. HWM are one of those endearing bands you’d love to listen to were they only capable of spurting out something worth hearing. Shame.

On with The Alkaline Trio and off with the only admirable characteristic of tonight’s performances. The trio displayed no emotion whatsoever as they swept away any recollection of HWM’s fun-loving (if simple) ardor for music, adopting in its place their trademark angsty whining. As they impatiently trundled out song after song of their painfully bland set, vocalist Matt Skiba subtly ‘wooed’ us further still with his unabashed honesty ("we fucked that song up") and flattering sycophantism ("Astoria is the best venue to play in!"). Admittedly most fans seemed unperturbed by this lacklustre effort, but then taking into consideration the average age of this concert’s audience, not to mention their lemming-like approach toward choosing and following their ‘favourite bands’, such devotion to a lost cause should hardly be surprising.

Of course, it’s entirely possible the acoustics were to blame. Perhaps the entire band was simply suffering from end-of-tour lethargy. Or maybe, just maybe, the reeking stench of aloofness plaguing Tottenham Court Road’s lamest venue tonight can be fully & simply attributed to our headliners employing the same degree of indifference in performing live as they have done in writing songs since the release of their eponymously-titled album in 2000. There’s no doubt The Alkaline Trio have nurtured their unique sound over time into a viable form of music that, potentially, could inspire future artists. But that just makes it all the more depressing that they decided to forsake their artistic heritage and sell themselves so short.

Unsurprisingly, it took a resurrection of tonight’s warm-up act at the end of the set to liven things up a bit. After a decent enough rendition of Radio by the Trio, the two bands converged on stage to play by far the most entertaining bout of music of the last hour and a half. This momentary and contrived casual party atmosphere, however, fell far short of the kind of effort required to make up for the rest of the evening. An impromptu appearance by The Dead Kennedys (coupled with a hasty retreat of the scheduled headliners) might just have changed my mind, but then that probably would have ruined it for the rest of the audience. A night best forgotten methinks.