Signing records in Truck Store on a sunny Saturday afternoon, Daughter are calm and gracious. A few hours later, and just a little further down the Cowley Road, the north London indie-rock trio turn deftly sincere as they play hard-hitting songs from new second album Not To Disappear.

After debut If You Leave, Not To Disappear is not a blind step into the void. Their infamous brooding capacity of vocals intertwined with Igor Haefeli’s shredding guitar is still apparent. Rather than reinventing their sound for this new album, the group have clasped onto all that they did best, and stepped it up a level. With a smoky strobe mist on stage, they fill the sold-out O2 Academy not only with bodies, but with a certain hazy vibe.

First tracks ‘How’ and ‘Alone / With You’ resonate with the same kind of cool intensity that Daughter are famous for. Ruminating, arching electric guitar lines hum underneath Elena Tonra’s hushed vocals. A luxurious synth-led ebb and flow resounds throughout ‘Alone / With You’, and it seems that what has changed since 2013’s If You Leave is their mindset: a greater confidence in experimen tation, in the way the band pore over their instruments and set into their own groove right from the off.

Amongst this ambience – what can only be described as sheer vibey-ness – rhythms are subtle yet defined. On drums, Remi Aguilella is crucial in providing the momentum for the percussive backbeat that heads out in dialogue with the synth in ‘Numbers’, or the time changes between verse and chorus in ‘Human’, ultimately leaving the song in a lush meandering groove.

There is a charming discord between the intensity of the band’s art and their down-toearth nature. Between songs, Tonra sips out of a red tin camping flask, overwhelmed at the whoops coming from the crowd she looks out on. Suitable for the emotional and gripping nature of their sound, the room is dripping with sweat, and audience and band alike quickly begin to feel clammy. “At least I’m up here – no one can smell me”, Tonra quietly says. While I’m sure the audience would like to be even closer to her, the frontwoman’s timidity often makes it feel as though she’d prefer to be playing in a different room from other humans altogether.

Old songs provoke particular claps and squeals from the tightly-packed audience. Tonra, ever coy, shyly smiles and shrugs. Socalled “old” and “new” songs seamlessly give way for each other in this set: 2013’s ‘Amsterdam’ rings with Tonra’s whispered “I’ve been thinking I should see someone / Just to check that I’m alright”. On Not To Disappear’s lead single ‘Doing the Right Thing’, Tonra is sensitive enough to write from the perspective of her grandm o t h e r , troubled w i t h Alzheimer’s and at a loss of what to make as she slowly loses her grip on the world around her.

These lyrics may seem morbid, depressing even, but the starkness with which Tonra sings them, and the serenity to which they are lifted amongst fuzzy guitar and rippling drums, does not sink the evening into miserable territory. Instead, Tonra’s vocals fill a space, lingering over instrumental rhythms and substantiating a void – this modern industry – that is screaming out for truthful no-nonsense, no-hyperbole writing. In writing lines as honest as “Oh there has only been one time where we fucked and I felt like a bad memory” (‘No Care’) or “Sometimes I wish I’d stayed inside my mother” (‘Smother’), Tonra dispels any myth that emotional frankness has no place in pop.

★★★☆☆

If, like me, you know nothing of this play, do not be misled by the somewhat innocuous plot description online. The birthday party premise, coupled with a list of whimsical character names (Foxtrot Darling sounds cheery right?) formed the basis of my vague expectation for some kind of light-hearted satire. Instead I endured over 2 hours of a macabre pyscho-thriller interspersed with flashes of a twisted, fairytale-like narrative. Think Dorian Gray meetsthe longest Alfred Hitchcock ever and you’re along the right lines.

‘Endure’ is not inapposite given the sheer length and frustratingly slow pace of the first half. Whilst it painstakingly establishes the perverse dynamic between the manipulative and narcissistic title character, Cougar Glass (Jack Morris) and his benignly subservient disciple, Captain Tock (Max Reynolds) in terms of plot development the first hour is positively glacial.

Such a slow-moving storyline plus minimal use of visual and audio stimulation meant that strong characterisation was critical and luckily an impressive cast did not disappoint. Morris’s poise was excellent and overall he struck the perfect balance between the sexual charisma and pure malice that makes his depraved character so arresting. Reynolds’s performance as Captain took longer to convince me (initially the skullcap of duct tape creating the impression of baldness proved too distracting); however he quickly warmed up and his response to some of the more sinister emotional manipulation inflicted by Cougar was truly engaging.

The appearance of Cheetah Bee, the geriatric landlady oddly reminiscent of Catherine Tate’s notorious ‘Nan’ character, freshened an atmosphere which by the end of the first half was bordering on tedium. Whilst Alexandra Ackland-Snow did a laudable job and her eccentric presence onstage provided some much-needed relief, it was a struggle to develop her character into anything beyond caricature.

Thankfully some bolder directorial decisions were taken to enliven the shorter second half and the drama was at its strongest with the four main characters onstage together, participating in an increasingly unsettling birthday party ritual. Emily Smith delivered an expert performance as Foxtrot Darling, whose pathetic eagerness was pitched at just the right level to convey the teenager’s total infatuation with Cougar, and later boiled over into bitter resentment at the domineering antics of his brother’s ex-girlfriend, Sherbet Gravel (India Opzoomer). Although Opzoomer took a little longer to settle into the hardness of her character she commanded the later scenes – there was collective tensing in the audience as Sherbet cavorted around stage, palpably enraging the volatile Cougar.

Overall, the ill-judged pace of the first half was a real let-down and although the second half was more engaging in every way, for me it never quite redeemed itself. Doubtlessly this production as a whole would have benefited enormously from some ruthless script editing at an earlier stage. That said, if a drawn-out display of In-yer-face theatre particularly appeals, or if you’ve got a desire to marvel at some deeply disturbed characters, then The Fastest Clock in the Universe would certainly be worth an evening of your time.

★★★☆☆

Sunderland rockers Field Music have always been singular in their knack for jangling melodies, edgy rhythms and interweaving vocals. Back for Commontime, their sixth album, brothers Peter and David Brewis do not leave this behind. If anything, they push at the peripheries of the indie-rock they have made in the past, with ironic album opener ‘The Noisy Days Are Over’ announcing anything but: this noise is here and now.

After taking four years off – both members are involved in various solo and side projects – their perspectives seem to have changed. Now both fathers, they talk about familial relationships in their music. In ‘Stay Awake,’ David sings, “And I’m sorry if I’m ever short with you – I don’t mean it”. Despite this domestic familiarity, the brothers are able to create an invigorating sound.

At times hitting at a more reserved, mature version of Vampire Weekend’s tightly crafted indie-pop, the duo recorded the album in spontaneous bursts over six months in their Wearside studio. This spontaneity is certainly felt: vocals are often soulful, but sometimes clashing; harmonies are often discordant but occasionally lush and full; melodies sometimes take the form of crooning saxophone jibes but, at other times, come from tinkering piano.

It seems they do have a lot of fun up in the Northeast, after all.

Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. The man who’d sat down opposite me was an eminent professor. My erstwhile friends to the left and right of me had fled the field of battle and were engaged intently in conversations with their less intimidating peers. After 20 years of non-stop inane babble, I was tongue- tied and useless. It was strangely like being on a first date and realising that you have nothing in common with the person you’re now socially obliged to spend the next few hours with. Or, at least, that’s what I imagine this would be like: dating is something you do with excavated archaeological samples. That’s not a joke about the age of my potential partners. This is a serious business, you know?

The generational and intellectual divide between my dinner companion and I was vast. I knew I couldn’t launch into a rant about films he hadn’t seen, or the deeper meanings behind Facebook stickers. What I needed was to find something in common, but, at the same time, wasn’t an objectionable choice for light and fluffy intercourse. Death’s remorseless scythe seemed cruel to talk about while I was still in the flushes of rosy-cheeked youth. Any mention of academia and I’d quickly reveal myself to be an imbecile. Finally, to much relief, I hit upon the issue of the day: the clocks were going back. Until the Tardis becomes a reality, we all have to share the same time. We could happily chat about the rationality of Daylight Saving Time until there was no daylight left to save. The mundane salvation we craved had been found.

“Changing the clocks gives you a bizarre feeling of secret power, doesn’t it? When else do we get to manufacture time?”

Like a chess Grandmaster who’d just triggered an inexorable slide towards checkmate, I leaned back in my chair. Your heroic protagonist, one: social anxiety, nil.

“Of course,” opined he, “it’s completely necessary. The barbarians of Europe can wake up to work in the darkness if they want, but the day hasn’t really started until the sun rises.”

Darkness and sleep; sleep and darkness; they should go together like Sinatra’s love and marriage, right? (Ol’ Blue Eyes himself loved marriage so much that he did it four times, and he still had the cheek to sing that song. I mean, I love Test Match Special, but I’m not going to propose to Jonathan Agnew.) The conversation reminded me that I’d read somewhere a theory that humans used to lie dormant for 12 hours in the winter; four hours asleep, four hours awake, and four asleep again. Little of use could be accomplished without the sun; flickering firelight impractical for hunting or farming.

Did our ancestors just spend this time watching the shadows, and waiting for dawn? Today, we can banish darkness at a moment’s notice; there’s nothing to fear from it. Everywhere we look it has been conquered. We know that the statistical likelihood of any as-yet undiscovered monsters lurking therein is about as high as a tungsten kite. None of this rationalisation prevented you, as a child, when the power went out, from huddling in the living room with your family, from risking infernos with poorly-constructed tea-light candles, from searching vainly for hand-held torch batteries. Even when you knew that in a few hours the lights would be back again.

You’re not alone or foolish in this; we stuck a jagged non-linear jump and a broken-record replay into the year so that we could stay in natural light for as long as possible. We’re so far from the darkness that used to be everywhere that in many countries you have to trek for miles from human civilisation just to see the stars at night; and when you do, you’re amazed that there are so many.

We are feeble candles. Our little hearts pump lukewarm blood around a body not that much warmer than the world outside. It’s winter and if you leave your house in an unwise choice of clothes and walk far enough you will freeze. The light we emit is in the infrared spectrum; its peak wavelength is somewhere close to 9.5 microns; it can’t be seen by human eyes. We need artificial aids to dispense with darkness. If anyone appears to be glowing particularly bright to you, it’s all in your head.

There’s not much that resembles the prehistoric phenomenon of being forced to wait for hours in the dark with fewer distractions than we have now; but, if you’re looking on the bright side, it’s pleasant to think that maybe all of this forced waking-waiting gave our forebears time to think. It’s possible, probable, that most of what we think of as culture: storytelling, mythology, music, philosophy – only begun to emerge from the bustle and business of day-to-day survival in the wee small hours when darkness held sway.

Maybe this was the beginning of the great deception; transforming the world from what it really is, and what it is when we’re not looking at it, into something more habitable, more palatable: erecting the scaffolding of civilisation to convince ourselves that the universe is something we can see and understand.

Eventually we’d fulfilled our social obligations and it became acceptable to leave: so we left, paths diverging, each one headed towards a different source of light.