This Is Music

“It’s like a river o’ pish out there, man”.

Granted, it’s not the most eloquent depiction, but the tracksuit-clad teen on the number 31 couldn’t have put it more succinctly. Today, the skies opened spectacularly over Auld Reekie and this picturesque city has been transformed into a saturated, farcical, quagmire; partially submerged buses rest helplessly by the roadside, sewage gushes from every drain and drenched late-night shoppers shiver their way from store to store trying to negotiate round giant pools of stagnant water. In fact, Edinburgh seems so tragically inept at coping with rain I’m starting to think it might be quicker canoeing it to Henry’s Cellar Bar for This Is Music’s 1st birthday bash.

On setting foot in the venue a brazen trench-like mentality has already formed in the few who’ve braved the elements to catch Glasgow’s *Popup * open tonight’s proceedings. Perhaps it’s the cake they’ve devoured or, more likely, the cheap ale they’ve consumed, but even frontman Damian Gilhooly's announcement of a shakily prepared acoustic set due to unforeseen drummer problems fails to dampen the crowd’s spirits.

When fully-manned, Popup are energetic, hook-laden bastions of shimmering melodies, but stripped down to the bare bones of just an acoustic guitar their dishevelled takes on the complexities of youth become an entirely different proposition. Although brutally prominent on record, tonight Gilhooly's laconic Celtic drawl tenderly invites you into a world of illicit desire and romantic heroism. There’s more than a touch of Middleton-esque morbidity in his voice as he pleads, “I don’t care what you do but just don’t you fucking do it here” over ‘Chinese Burn’’s itching, virulent strum-a-long, and this penchant for sardonic miserablism is extended into the couplet-embracing splendour of ‘Jackie’. The execution may be ramshackle, particularly when Gilhooly is joined by piss-taking guitarist Nick Giudicini, but Popup’s ability to pull off multi-layered pop paeans like the pulse-stopping ‘Stagecoach’ in such minimalist fashion is a truly breathtaking spectacle.

In comparison to Popup’s laidback atmospherics, Q Without U’s synth-led sonic swirl is a little overwhelming. Covering everyday emotional issues like discovering your dad’s a paedophile and finding it funny or discovering your dad’s Joe Pasquale and being horrified, the Glaswegian quartet fizz furiously into the realms of the surreal. Their zingy ‘70s psychedelic-pop buzzes like a Super Furry-fuelled electro generator supervised by Mark E. Smith. At times they can be electrifying - during the magnificent ‘Our Luck Is A Prostitute’ you can almost smell the burning flesh as the surging keys mainline their victorious sonic bile straight into your bloodstream - but the set is slightly tainted by a lack of exploration, with too many tracks merging into one without clear distinction. Yet this pedantry is quickly forgotten as the two-pronged drum assault of closer ‘Fear Of Degradation’ crunches into the air, leaving you disorientated in a fluorescent whirlpool off all-consuming sound.

This breathless battering shows little sign of subsiding as Edinburgh avant-gardes Found take to the stage. It’s all too easy to hail this bewildering group as natural heirs to the throne of dementia left behind by the Beta Band, but their sound is so progressive, so completely unique, it’s demeaning to tie it to the stale confines of a label. Instead, we should be celebrating the euphoria created by their extraordinary kaleidoscopic soundscapes. A cacophony of glittering effects, stumbling drums, shamanic humming and epileptic Hammond keys, they weave massive, groove-led symphonies from the simple fabric of an acoustic guitar. The hypnotic aural gaze emitting from funk-flip-outs like ‘The Very Fabric’ or the break-dancing psychosis of ‘Found Can Move’ is accentuated by the quartet’s stand-offish, deadpan demeanour and as they crash headlong into the final fling of a sensational set the ensemble triumphantly imprint your heart and soul with sneering, jazzed-up melodies you’ll never want to forget.

Outside it may be pissing it down, but tonight at Henry’s there was nothing but a glorious storm of sound.