The Murder Capital are played on to the Vicar Street stage by the hum of an electric guitar and the words of Paul Curran. The late poet sings "Dear James, I still remember the days...how quick you faded away" as the band pick up their instruments and singer James McGovern inhales sharply.

In their short time as The Murder Capital, the group have amassed a hefty following. Vicar Street is packed, chock full of the motliest crew I've ever seen. Everyone and their Dad has turned up for the band's hometown show. The Irish quintet launches into an intense set, refusing to be pigeonholed by genre–categorising them as "punk" would be too simple, although it has become the buzz word used to describe their sound. There's certainly fury in songs like 'Don't Cling To Life,' but the band's hallmark is actually tenderness.

Spurred on by the crowd's enthusiasm, they rage against the establishment and toxic masculinity, holding each other close and encouraging the room to join their openness. McGovern remembers lost loved ones, saying “please reach out, if you need to talk to someone, we're here,” before 'On Twisted Ground' begins. The only sounds in the room for the ensuing six minutes are coming from the band themselves. At a show like this one, the sheer control it takes to hold the potential energy of a crowd between your mouth and the microphone is immense. The whole band are in top form, keeping the song simmering just below boiling point.

Suddenly, The Murder Capital release their pent-up energy, and we’re caught in the whirlwind of the brewing storm. Support act Junior Brother is crowdsurfing. McGovern lurches forward to join the fray, touching hands and faces as he's carried by strangers–while veritably screaming the "la la, la-la-la"s of 'Feeling Fades'. And as quickly as they came, The Murder Capital are gone again, leaving bright eyes and bleeding hearts in their wake.