Animal Collective’s live show can be known to go one of two ways: triumphantly, as was the case once upon a while ago at TJ’s Woodhouse, or atrociously, to which a Roundhouse date several years subsequently attested. So, best to abandon expectations, to instead expect the unexpected, et cetera. Tonight’s showing at the Troxy, however, can be succinctly condensed down into two contrasting, but ultimately, inextricably corresponding statements: that of Avey Tare – né Dave Portner – who, during a rare moment’s repose in the wake of the gloopy, bloopy Spilling Guts, confirms he, Noah Lennox, Brian Weitz and newly incorporated rhythmic powerhouse Jeremy Hyman are “feeling good,” and that of the disgruntled guy behind us, who bemoans what he perceives to be “a terrible setlist.”

Obviously, and probably appropriately, this particular live iteration – and with their every tour, very apparently, comes another – is as divisive as their latest, or February’s aberrant Painting With. With this said, and the show now long since done, I couldn’t disagree with the latter comment any more, unless it were somehow espousing Brexit; because I would subjectively, if thus tentatively suggest that not since Feels have Animal Collective visibly been “feeling [this] good,” with their characteristically refractory tunes sounding considerably better still…

Granted, there are tracks freshly licked off their latest, palette-like proffering which fare better than others, with the likes of Hocus Pocus detrimentally amorphous; otherwise, this supremely uncompromising set centres a) around Painting With, and b) about the swirling, wonderfully interwoven vocals of Portner and Lennox. Delivering alternate lines, these coalesce perfectly on the flatulent, luxuriant Lying in the Grass, and the similarly gaseous-sounding, bounding Summing the Wretch; time apart (as one third of Slasher Flicks, in which Hyman also features, and Panda Bear respectively) very evidently having made them much stronger, and with this, synergic now that they’re back together again.

Nevertheless, better yet are The Burglars and Golden Gal as Portner takes the lead and the limelight alike, with Lennox then backing him up with won-won-won-wonderful, Beach Boyish harmonies come choruses sure to inspire the sort of festival euphoria rivalled only by Brian Wilson performing Pet Sounds in full; that, or a special, unscheduled appearance from that lucky old sun, I suppose. The definitive aestival anthem-in-waiting, however, is – or certainly will be – FloriDada; the sort of ecstatic, carefree breeze of a number, that makes the oftentime floridity of their post-Feels discography past seem completely unnecessary. By September, Portner et al. will doubtless be beyond done with it, but for the time being, it’s euphoric, unifying (even he behind us duly loses it), and fucking terrific.

And that lattermost adjective, to reiterate, very much applies to tonight, too: against a backdrop redolent of what can only be (deplorably inaccurately) described as the mortally impossible, and artistically questionable commissioning of Neil Buchanan and Pablo Picasso, collaborating together on some lysergic reinterpretation of Mount Rushmore, this is more or less the one lone blot on the proverbial copybook, with Hyman dual-handedly propelling proceedings whenever focus or, for that matter, momentum is lost. The segues between certain songs can be lengthy, lullabying affairs – much like this particular eulogy, one might argue – but it’s the injection of live snare and, intermittently, cymbal which mainlines the latent immediacy fundamentally lodged in so much of the show…

… and never is this more apparent than during a rendition of Loch Raven: lifted from the aforesaid Feels – a release which, akin to Painting With, was seemingly born of blithe insouciance back in 2005, but stinks of brilliance still – celestial synths lines, twinkly to the point of atonality, combine with spiky primal screaming courtesy of Portner, with this discordance duly offset by Lennox’ mellifluous, fluid cooing, to create an unprecedentedly lovely minute or two; a moment, if you will.

Similarly unexpected, and unexpectedly similar to much of Merriweather Post Pavilion, is their outré revision of Martha Reeves & The Vandellas’ Jimmy Mack; a track that, in fact, completely overshadows Daily Routine – the one, and only one to be taken from their ’09 breakthrough record. It is, presumably, for this very reason that some may consider this evening to be ‘atrocious,’ “terrible”, or what have you; but to me at least, tonight is an out-and-out triumph. Which isn’t necessarily all that I was expecting it to be, basically…