Viet Cong at the Workman’s Club, 13 May 2015

It’s a shame they had to go and name the band Viet Cong.

If having a name loaded with meaning (which has gotten the band barred from playing certain venues) was the point, that’d at least be punk. But it seems like Viet Cong’s moniker was chosen because those two words sounded cool, displaying an entitled white obliviousness to any problematic historical implications. Not cool guys.

So it’s more than a little annoying that Viet Cong are so damn good that we’re going to have to keep talking about them.

The Canadian post-punks’ first visit to Ireland was more than enough proof that Viet Cong are a terrifyingly good live act. Their wedged to absolute capacity Workman’s gig was a tremendous blast of intricate psychedelic riffage merged with raw, elemental noise.

The four piece take your standard song structure and perforate it with more part changes and face-melting solos than you’d find on a whole metal album, alternating from a dam burst of pure noise to melodic breathers with the kind of precision that suggests that the band may actually be a single entity.

Their debut album is already one of the most notable releases of the year so far, but Viet Cong have a live intensity that brings a totally new dimension to their music. Bassist and vocalist Matt Flegel’s voice became a nasal drone, tearing through the surge of instrumentals like an air raid siren.

On a prolonged intro to the humongous March of Progress drummer Mike Wallace punched out a pneumatic beat over layers of distortion left over form the previous song. After this was let rumble for a couple of minutes Flegel’s bass came pulsing up through the fug. Suddenly the whole band found the rhythm and fell into the meat of the tune, each one assaulting their instruments in a way that somehow produced a skin-tight synchronicity when combined.

Continental Shelf saw Flegel going for a full scream on the sledgehammering chorus, before reeling it all back in for a clean, almost gentle, verse.

After a pause for breath (and possibly to let the audience realise how much their ears were already ringing) Viet Cong launched into a monstrous fifteen minute finale, Death. What began as another run of the mill indie number rapidly deteriorated into a barrage of free-flowing psychedelia, peppered with room-shaking drum fills and soaring guitar solos. The song built and built, battering the room senseless with noise before finally sinking back into a wave of pure feedback.

And then, after just five songs in forty minutes, Viet Cong were done. The audience waited for the encore, but how do you follow a fifteen minute psycho-freakout? The band had climaxed, there wasn’t anything left to do but roll over and fall asleep.

When Viet Cong emerged back onstage a few minutes later, they were suddenly sheepish and apologetic. We’ve nothing left, admitted Flagel. They’d beaten their instruments to shit. One of their two guitars was missing half its strings. We don’t do encores, said Flagel.

But then they gave it a go anyway, breaking out a brief little punkish number, like an out of tune romp at the end of a jam session in a garage. Every band may pretend they aren’t going to do an encore, but this was too loose and messy to be anything but sincere.

Maybe this is why you shouldn’t be too pissed off about the name. Viet Cong aren’t here for controversy, they’re here to beat you senseless with a full bore sonic assault. And there’s something disarmingly sincere about the way they do it.

Viet Cong will be back on these shores to play this year’s Electiric Picnic. Watch out for them.