Idlewild

Tonight feels like a pre-requisite for Hogmanay - out with the old and in with the new, minus the obligatory chorus of Auld Lang Syne and Jools Holland, of course. Representing the old guard we have Idlewild. Only a decade into their careers they may be - mere whippersnappers alongside the omnipresent likes of U2, Radiohead and Oasis - but their current best-of album and tour has taken on something of a winding down process; a band almost certainly taking one final opportunity to wish acquaintances both past and present "Thanks and Farewell" one last time. For that reason alone we'll leave them out of the equation when it comes to scoring tonight's show. Everyone I've ever met with any interest in music over the past decade has at least one fond memory of Roddy Woomble and company.

The Twilight Sad, on the other hand, are a band firmly in the ascendancy. Fiercely driven by the ghosts that seemingly litter singer/songwriter James Graham's past, theirs is a sound that many have tried to pigeonhole but haven't quite grasped yet. Frankly, they are one of the most unique talents to emerge from these shores (we are all part of the United Kingdom after all folks, even Glaswegians) for some time, both on record and even more captivatingly so in the flesh.

Tonight is no exception, as the band take to the stage at an early time yet still manage to enthral each and every one of those fortunate enough to have missed the ensuing Saturday night rush to arrive just in time for opening hours.

Blessed with a wall of sound that is equal parts My Bloody Valentine, Godspeed and drone-period Spaceman 3, their most notable facet is the unpredictable, but ultimately unmissable, presence of Graham, a frontman who simply bleeds his soul on the confines of a stage. The stories themselves range from the dark ('That Summer At Home I Had Become The Invisible Boy') to the mysterious ('Cold Days In The Birdhouse) to the compellingly anthemic ('And She Would Darken The Memory'). Even when sound problems threaten to render 'Talking With Fireworks' vocally mute - for the first verse at least - guitarist Andy MacFarlane and the accompanying rhythm section of Craig Orzel and Mark Devine raise the decibel levels to an almost deafening din, more than compensating for the singer's dissipated monitors.

By the end of the five-song set, folks are turning to people they've never met before exclaiming their awe at what they've just witnessed, before rushing to the merchandise stall. Expect this sort of adulation to be a regular occurrence in the coming months. Simply phenomenal.