Salem @ Islington Mill, Salford

Into the deep krunk baselines they sustain and reverberate, each sub bass tone shaking the room. Above this a light sprinkle of muted guitar breaks the pace giving the track a perceived momentum.

Picking up the mic Jack Donoghue – he of long hair – rhymes, to little effect. Not only is he barely comprehensible, but it detracts from the two synth layers - one slow and deep the other mid-range and glossy. “What the fuck is this?” repeated at the end of the track suggests that, despite his thick Chicagoan accent, it ain’t foolin’ no one.

Regardless it’s a pertinent question, what is this? Is it ironic, is it terminally fashionable (all smoke and mirrors) or is there a substance which just isn’t transcending? Whatever it is, the crowd are polarised.

A lot has been made of the intimate, sexualised relationships within the band; interviews that would shock the more conservative reader. If the acclaimed record behind this has been shrouded by these superficial facts it’s lamentable, but little else. As tonight Salem are a tragic live act.

For shame but they have missed their own boat. Not only have suspected copyists in White Ring and oOoOO outdone their momentum, but has left them for dust as the pioneering band that could never match the excitement awarded them for their premiering endeavour. As female member Heather Marlatt adopts the microphone to chant down, with modulated effects lending the impression she is greater and more powerful than her dainty frame would suggest, their game is up. The magic and mystery is gone, all which remains is three slightly subdued drug addicts with only pretension and hype propelling them through the set.