Performing before what musically questionable fellow Canadians Born Gold consider “a mysterious digital forest,” Megan James and Corin Roddick – together, better known as future-pop pairing, Purity Ring – certainly look the part as they play the not insignificant (and perhaps more significantly, sold out) O2 Shepherd’s Bush Empire tonight. But do they sound it? Well, question marks essentially still remain…

There can be no questioning the atrocity that is Born Gold, mind; an untimely reminder of the reprehensible Fueled By Ramen back catalogue, with outdated reminiscences of Blood Diamonds floating about in the bloody unpalatable broth. As for James and Roddick’s selection of filler fodder, while there may be more rubbery, bassy screeches racing around the room than there are most F1 courses, it seems apt that the duo should opt to play out the likes of Pusha T’s Future-featuring Pain, Rihanna’s Bitch Better Have My Money and Röyksopp & Robyn’s Do It Again, given that it’s these sorts of musical constructions from which their sophomore full-length – February’s another eternity – is seemingly formed. A considerably more cogent outing than their rather incohesive previous effort, Shrines, it should come as no surprise to learn that they this time created a record in far closer proximity to one another. (Shrines was, lest we forget, recorded solitarily in Halifax and Montréal, where Megan and Corin were respectively living at that particular time.) And, combining the unabashed defiance of so much contemporary rap, the trap-py backing that fronts Bitch Better Have My Money and the pulsating propulsion of the Scandi dream team aforesaid, similarly, there are few surprises contained within their eclectic (yet again, remarkably cohesive) playlist chosen to plug up spare time.

Henceforth though, throughout a largely breathless hour or so, there is barely a let-up or pause for even so much as a second’s respite, as they rifle through their two records with rash relish. James, in ’80s shoulder pads sharper than Mick Jagger’s zygomatic bones once seemed long before the jowls began to really droop, heads up the hefty stranger than earth; a track that, in proving redolent of both Faithless’ venerated ’90s endeavours and much contemporary ‘EDM’, delights elders and newcomers to commensurate extent. Granted, those synthetic handclaps that clatter throughout sound all the more audible than those engendered down in the stalls, although the perceptible levels of stupefaction are completely understandable. It’s a compelling, when not overwhelming introduction to a live show that, to reiterate, looks every bit the part; a complete, multisensory overload…

Of course, Purity Ring are no longer bit-part players when it comes to club music – not only is another eternity brimming with emboldened beats both chthonic and completely mesmeric enough to have even Hudson Mohawke’s hairs stood on end, but the flyers which float about outside both promote and portend a headline date at the Roundhouse toward the end of this year. The ’Empire is by no means of inconsequential size nor stature, to reiterate once again; and that previously implied readiness and/ or willingness to pander to contemporariness, emulating the eminently perceptible successes of Rihanna et al. to an extent, is reason enough for them to be flying rather higher than, for instance, current touring cronies BRAIDS. Purity Ring, by direct contrast, may lack the intricacies that have proven so integral to their fellow Albertans’ oeuvre – not least those heard during their extraordinary latest, Deep In The Iris – although they’ve evidently little, to no shortage of nous between the two of them.

So, as James’ meticulously coiffured mane (which she’ll later refuse to cover up with a dark fedora that’s rather enthusiastically thrown onstage) blows windswept in the rabid breeze that rushes through a sweeping push pull, loosely resembling that of one Marilyn Monroe coquettishly tiptoeing over an MTA Subway grill as it does so, Roddick hits an elaborate row of MIDI bulbs with sticks. To perpetuate the comparison, he lacks the finesse and refinement of, say, Taylor Smith, but in this overtly (if not overly) digitalised era, Purity Ring are, purely and simply, a precise epitome of modernism. Their proficiency is thus of lesser importance when set against their proclivity to produce music to make your heart sigh and your body later ache. (As mine indeed now does today, incidentally…)

With that said however, as torchbearers (albeit rather less literally than they once were, the hanging lanterns having fallen by the wayside since the duo were last seen on this side of the pond) of this technologically incapacitating epoch, there are those who are more taken with Tinder, intermittently checking their Mail, Instagramming, Snapchatting, WhatsApping and so on. Which is something of a shame, given that moments of genuine ingenuity are many: repetition suggests the pair could do well alongside a certain Kanye West, or better than with Danny Brown at any rate; Lofticries tonight recalls decelerated Duran Duran, and sounds not dissimilar to a modern-day Bond song that effortlessly betters most committed to more recent memory; sea castle, synth-pop à la La Roux at Elly Jackson’s bequiffed best, proves all the more imposing live also. Belispeak, meanwhile, evokes the gritty joie de vivre of Jumpin’ Jumpin’ by way of bEEdEEgEE, SALEM, Zomby and the musically analogous likes thereof. Nonetheless, a disconnect persists, more or less everybody “in the club” resisting the temptation to “do that dance,” perhaps as a very direct result of this…

Essentially, it’s to be comprehended, yet still it seems particularly unanticipated: while so overtly electronic a performance will always have the capacity to leave people feeling cold, in spite of James’ best attempts to connect, few jump, bump or, for that matter, grind. And so, rather unfortunately, a sterility has a tendency to prevail; one that, for all of the visual ravishment on show, means the music itself, live, leaves a little bit to be desired.

Additionally, James looks particularly isolated out front, occasionally wandering through the dangling lights that flank Roddick but more often than not, resembling a guest vocalist before a glorified DJ booth. Ultimately, it may be lacking in overall ‘liveness’ so to speak; a crack that not even their newly bulked-up sound can paper over. Moreover, patter comes at a real premium, James stopping only momentarily to take a photo on her iPhone. “Maybe I should do ‘a pano’?” she moots, in supreme complicity with the perception that Purity Ring perfectly embody modernity, and all this has in turn come to itself embody, these days.

And, in keeping with this once more, there are moments at which it all seems that little bit too excessively choreographed. Electing to go with identikit setlists over an entire tour doesn’t really leave a great deal of room for extemporaneous manoeuvre – something of a given – while James’ saccharine, ingenuous vocal delivery is, at times, made out to sound all too disingenuous underneath exceptionally heavy levels of vocoder. Admittedly though, this makes a suitably breathtaking Fineshrine all the more impressive, with lovers up in arms in the aisles. Still truly scintillating to this day, it resonates on a thoroughly human level, and doesn’t merely do so due to James’ outré, anatomical lyricisms. In stark contrast to this fine, shining instance, for all of dust hymn’s cataclysmic brute force – momentary reminiscences about Underworld’s divine, Dame Evelyn Glennis-featuring And I Will Kiss abounding – it may sound massive but, vitally, it’s missing that organic core from moments before. flood on the floor then rekindles comparisons with Kanye and Hudson Mohawke once more, the track instantly suggestive of Niggas in Paris had Ross Birchard muscled in on an already heavyweight, lengthy rundown of productional credits, before getting caught up in yet more trap and synthetic handclaps.

But if Purity Ring have yet to really win over their audience this evening, then James’ candid admission that encores are “a thing our band doesn’t believe in” – thus leaving us in the lurch, she and Roddick having barely mustered an hour between them – does them precious few favours. Nevertheless, they’ve begin again to thank for there being no real gripes nor grievances come 10 o’clock, ominous synth lines and a particularly cataclysmic chorus bringing things to a gloriously tumultuous conclusion. Thusly though, question marks as to the potency – not to mention the proficiency of it all – persevere, and may continue to do so for another eternity yet. However, with that said, as a modern-day pop “band” in kind, tonight has proven as short as, yet sometimes incomparably sweeter than, most honeyed, dew-addled and doe-eyed shows belonging to said genre. Now we need only broach the issue of them breaching the curfew, or at least approaching it, in Chalk Farm come October…