Fucked Up / Lower @ Gorilla, Manchester, 15 June

The tension: it’s bound up in every single one of Anton Rothstein’s rippling, complex drum patterns. Why settle for a standard punk rock beat when you can just confuse the fuck out of everyone instead, right? Framing this dizzying shuffle with strafes of discordant scree and galloping basslines, Lower’s take on post-punk is a rusted, coiled spring that never quite snaps open; instead it immerses us all in the strain and slowly crushes us with it. Frontman Adrian Toubro neatly ices the cake, his cherubic, preppy-boy scruff leaving us unprepared for the existential ache of his vocal – the earnest roar of numbers like Lost Weight, Perfect Skin offers a glimpse of a parallel universe where Bryan Ferry grew up in the American hardcore scene of the 80s, obsessing over Embrace and Moss Icon. “We can’t offer you pop music,” he announces, unapologetically, “but we can offer you narcissism.” Seems a fair trade.

After the tension, the release: Fucked Up remain one of punk rock’s most compelling live acts. Ever the willing spectacle, Damian Abraham rampages around the room, whether to roll around in the beer-soaked floor or scream a few lines from behind the merch desk. Of course, such infectious energy can come across as daffy punk schlock without the tunes to back it up, and an opening salvo of Echo Boomer, Queen of Hearts and David Comes to Life makes air-punching, beaming devotees of mere fans, both old and new. The cold, brutal anger of hardcore was meant to express many things, but euphoria was never one of them: just when you thought Toronto’s finest had pushed their template as far as it could go, they unleash brilliant newbies like the cathartic pop of Sun Glass, drenched with luminescent harmonies and mirage-like psychedelic fug. “Let’s fall in love,” as the song begs. We’re way ahead of you. [Will Fitzpatrick]