30 Seconds to Mars

02, Dublin

When a venue as large as the O2 isn’t stuffed to the rafters, it can be a daunting experience for any band or performer.

So it is with Los Angeles trio, 30 Seconds to Mars, a reasonably efficient contemporary rock act that has slowly risen from being an adjunct to lead singer Jared Leto’s respectable acting career (which has featured highly capable turns in

Fight Club, Panic Room

and

Requiem for a Dream

) to become one of the most admired rock bands of the past few years.

And here’s the interesting thing: for a man very close to his 40s, Leto’s appeal, as that of his band, seems to be across the board. From mostly female teenagers to quite a few men who can trot out the names of Led Zeppelin at the local pub quiz, the songs performed are shouted out while fists of all sizes are being thrust into the air.

Leto is unaccustomed to being out of the spotlight, which is quite likely why he’s such a good frontman. It’s rare that confidence on stage transmits such a level of responsibility to and for an audience. This is why Leto’s entreaties to venue security men to exit from a (solicited) mosh pit in order to allow fans to have a firm yet non-threatening wallow in sweaty, charged physicality is greeted with credulity instead of a cringe. Certainly, it’s been a long while since this critic has witnessed a rock singer with such total, if benign, discipline and control over a situation that if ignored could have turned oppressive.

If Leto’s admirable self-assurance is one thing, then the music is most decidedly another. Frankly, it’s a bit of an amalgamated mess, taking its cues from a wide variety of sources (including The Cure, U2, The Cult, Nine Inch Nails and, yes, really, Spandau Ballet) that rarely add up to anything approximating an original sound.

There are some cute touches that lift the music above the ordinary, however, not least being Leto’s genuinely surprising mid-set acoustic appearance on the balcony. Add in smart use of pupil-popping lights and guitar roadies dressed in white laboratory coats (a calculated nod, perhaps, to the band’s recent sojourn in a Hollywood studio called the International Centre for the Advancement of the Arts Sciences of Sound) and you have a gig that is equal parts Charmageddon and rock’n’roll cliché.