Fuck Buttons’ sound seems to channel the essence of currents. It’s the torrential flow of a raging river; it’s the crackling effervescence of raw electricity. It’s also immense, celestial – like the fierce blood flow of some ancient god. Undercurrent, though, there’s a natural fragility to their music, an organic pulse.

That pulse, excited and colossal, seared in my veins as I half-walked, half-ran down the wet slope of the Botanic Gardens towards Fuck Buttons, mirroring the roar that reverberated in the darkness.

The pair produced sounds to match and exceed the energy of their recorded work, hunched over a table filled with jumbled fluorescent wires and innumerable knobs and buttons. Something about their presence seemed to, inexplicably, lessen the effect of their music: it should have been more than human… somehow it didn’t seem right to see a couple normal-looking dudes producing it. This was especially true during the epic “Olympians,” where it sounded like a replication of the song rather than a live interpretation.

The set sounded impressive, but it often felt like a compelling DJ set rather than an organic live performance. Thankfully, powerful moments, like “Surf Solar” reaching its crescendo, largely made up for such minor quibbles.