It's hard to believe now, but this time last year all the signs were that the Vaccines would become the privately educated answer to the Arctic Monkeys, lucratively bringing guitars back into fashion. The prosaic reality is that their album, What Did You Expect from the Vaccines?, has sold respectably, and the London quartet have been doing decent business on tour (this is the first of two sold-out nights at the 4,900-capacity Academy). But they're not the new broom they were predicted to be.
They certainly have lofty aspirations: before their set, the PA plays Springsteen and the Stooges, and they march on stage to the Ramones' Do You Remember Rock'n'Roll Radio? – but the implication that they are the heirs to the classic-rock throne isn't yet justified. The songs are punchy and visceral, yes, and with 15 packed into 50 minutes, the set is absolutely fat free. But the diversions that make the album interesting – Wetsuit's faintly menacing synth-drone, say, and the reverb that builds into prog-rock madness on A Lack of Understanding – are lost in the clatter. Possibly worse, there's a lack of personality that does for any sense of occasion. Where the Ramones had humour and the Strokes insouciant New York cool, the Vaccines seem to be four pairs of skinny jeans inhabited by poker-faced indie males.
In an outfit like this, chemistry counts, so it's not encouraging that they play like a group of well-rehearsed strangers. The lack of electricity between singer Justin Young, whose deadpan vocals match his expression, and guitarist Freddie Cowan decreases the impact of even the colossal pop-punk moments of Post Break-up Sex and If You Wanna. It says something that Cribs guitarist Ryan Jarman, who inexplicably pops in for a blast through the Standells' 1966 hit Good Guys Don't Wear White, has more surly magnetism than anyone else.
Having said that, there's obviously a reason why the Vaccines have rapidly progressed from "playing to four people at the Brixton Windmill", as Young recalls, to headlining Brixton Academy. There are moments when everything gels and you can see the point. The 90-second Wreckin' Bar (Ra Ra Ra) is prime, testosterone-drenched garage-rock that induces the singer to almost – yikes – dance, while the encore, Nørgaard, combines adrenalised surf-punk with Young's man-scorned bawling about a teenage Danish model who "don't want to go steady". There's potential but, after a year of hype, it's still unrealised.
