Great shows can, of course, take many forms.  And this was driven home with striking clarity this week, when I had the good fortune of catching Franz Nicolay and pageninetynine on consecutive evenings.  The former an acoustic solo artist, the other a nine-member collective that is literally a byword for chaotic sonic violence.

It was on Monday night that I popped along to catch the folk-punk of Franz Nicolay at Signature Brew in Haggerston.  Having had to miss his last London show a couple of years back, it was great to have the chance to see him again so soon.  With no new album in tow, we were treated to a wide-ranging show, including a couple of thoroughly enticing new tracks.  With just an acoustic guitar or accordion to call upon, all of the songs took on a sharper character than the lusher instrumentation of his albums, with a stirring reprise of Frankie Stubbs’ Tears from 2012’s Do The Struggle a particular highlight.

I have nothing but admiration for anyone who is willing to get on a stage, and to do it as a solo artist takes a particularly masochistic streak.  This is something that Franz explores in his highly recommended tour memoir, The Humourless Ladies Of Border Control.  Yet despite the fear that must be coursing through his veins, he is a warmly engaging stage presence throughout, with tales of antique weathervane thievery and the manifold pitfalls of guitar hire in Dublin.  All of which ensures that smiles are rarely far from everyone’s lips  But, perhaps, my biggest takeaway from the evening was just how difficult the accordion must be to master – the equivalent of playing three different instruments simultaneously, while grappling with a large tortoise.  As I say, not easy at all.

Things took on a rather gnarlier dynamic the following evening, with pageninetynine at the Scala.  Shows of this scale rarely appeal these days – the security, the eye-watering beer prices, the heresy of crowd barriers – leave me more than a touch cold.  But I’m glad that the strength of the line-up overcame my initial reluctance.

I had only ever ventured to the Scala a couple of times over a decade ago, but little has changed.  A hugely imposing building that looms near Kings Cross station, it feels oddly proportioned once your inside – all height, little depth.  I’ve had the pleasure of catching the swaggering brutality of openers Moloch a few times over the years, but it was my first time seeing Thou, who delivered a fiercely groove-laden battery, propelled by an absolute beast of a drumming display.  Though I must admit that I have rarely encountered a band as comfortable with a contemplative in-between song silence – no crashing immediately into the next song nor idle chatter entertained here.

pageninetynine then arrived with a full complement of nine members: twin vocalists – one all wild-eyed, sinewy hyperactivity, the other roaring bearded avuncularity – four guitarists, two bassists, and drummer.  The convulsing bodies on stage conjured images of an ecstatic hydra lost in a particularly fevered feeding frenzy and were mirrored by a frenetically seething pit throughout.  That they unleashed such convulsing chaos was to be expected, but when the band locked in together, there were passages that took on an unexpectedly hypnotic, euphorically charged edge.  A searing, utterly mesmerising rendition of The Hollowed Out Chest Of A Dead Horse embodied this perfectly.

After such a visceral performance, brimming with a wonderfully unbridled positivity, it was hugely unfortunate to see it end on a sour note.  As they returned to the stage for a final song, a genuinely harrowing scream filled the auditorium, and it emerged that a female member of the audience had been assaulted.  To their credit, the band swiftly responded and ensured that she received the support that she needed, before rightly calling proceedings to a close.  A rather depressing end to an otherwise great evening.

So, two very different, yet equally rewarding shows.  And both reminded us of the basic humanity and decency at the heart of hardcore punk, even in the face of the most cowardly malicousness.