There are some bands for whom a performance in a student union building feels entirely fitting, and London’s Dry Cleaning is one of them. Heroes of the post-punk sprechgesang movement, their wordy delivery is unmistakeably borne of an art-school background, balancing knowing pretension with cutting social realism. This is some seriously smart art. With two albums to draw from, Dry Cleaning’s live show comes together in a unified whole. Scratchcard Lanyard (the flagship single of their acclaimed 2021 debut, New Long Leg) is dropped early, easily the fan favourite of the night. But choice cuts from last year’s Stumpwork – so named for a twee, intricate style of flocked embroidery – take a slightly more expansive vocal approach, weaving new flecks into their tapestry. Conservative Hell (“am I part of the meal deal?”) elicits an excited whoop from one eager crowd member, as does Gary Ashby, an ode to a missing tortoise that sees frontwoman Florence Shaw intone a semblance of a melody with infectiously droll panache. “Someone sent us an Instagram thing saying RIP Gary, just assuming that he’s dead,” she offers by way of commentary. “It was upsetting.” The deadpan capers continue. Bassist Lewis Maynard shines on the P-Funk of Hot Penny Day, while debut single Magic of Meghan gets anti-royalists in the room bopping, gleefully lampooning our collective fascination with celebrity. Shaw remains stock-still in front of her mic stand, but allows her face to indulge in some artfully suppressed theatrics: raised brows and pursed lips that satirise the uptight, oat-latte-sipping hypocrite busybodies among us. A wry eye-roll creeps in on Liberty Log’s strangely fortuitous chorus: “Weird premise for a show, but I like it.” Indeed, there is plenty to enjoy about a Dry Cleaning show. The band are sonically airtight, and Shaw’s loquacious live recall is a feat worth witnessing; she apologises, unnecessarily, on the rare occasions when she is forced to consult her notes. But as the formula of their surrealist newspaper-headline songwriting starts to get familiar over a 90-minute set, it becomes difficult to pinpoint exactly what would differentiate a very good Dry Cleaning show from an excellent one. In delivering songs of such technical complexity, there is little room left for spontaneity, few allowances made for the kind of tangible interactions or communal singalongs that distinguish a truly memorable gig from a night of passively enjoyable performance art. For the diehard faithfuls in the room, this is hardly a problem; Dry Cleaning’s style of disciplined delivery is exactly why bands of this genre appeal. But for those really looking to get lost in an experience, sprechgesang still risks leaving some of its listeners out in the cold; fun to study at your own pace, but a little less invigorating in the classroom.