Glasvegas

With an icy wind whipping off the Mersey, the threat of yet more rain hanging in the air, we’re cold and damp before we get into the Barfly, and it takes rather too long to warm up. Firstly, support band Thomas Tantrum just aren’t very good – their art-rock sound is punctuated with clever moments, but they have neither the confidence nor the charisma to drive these songs home. Afterwards, we’re left with bitty memories of headbands, sullen faces and broken equipment. They look like they could all do with a decent meal and a hug.

Then there’s the interminable wait for Glasvegas, a band that clearly subscribes to the keep-them-hanging-on philosophy of cool. Eventually, they arrive, and the venue transforms from a barren room into a gothic theatre, shrouded in black and speared with bright white lights. The guitars and vocals, rich in reverb, flood out of the speakers and fill every inch of space. Dear Lord, they’re loud. Briefly, we feel sorry for Thomas Tantrum, whose mix was pathetic in comparison to this – Glasvegas using them as a support-band stepping stone on their way to the top.

The volume is crushing near the front, and until James Allan talks to us, the mood is threatening, dangerous. They look and sound aloof: faces that refuse to crack, unleashing their impersonal, droning rock throb that borrows from classic influences – My Bloody Valentine, Jesus and the Mary Chain – and it’s clear that these influences ring true for this lot; they aren’t spotty kids who’ve just discovered their dads’ CD collections, they’ve lived through the bleaker times, Glasgow in the Thatcher days, and the music has spoken to them.

Even in the more anthemic moments, anguish sweeps through, and the pace is singular. Kids try to bounce up and down but the beat is too slow and they look ridiculous. It’s a headache-inducing set of dirge – yet for once you can use those terms in a positive way, as the repetitive soundscapes serve to hammer home the message. A visceral display of power, an explosion of angst.

More importantly, this stuff is connecting with people right across the board. A cross-section of ages fills the Barfly tonight, trendy kids singing along at the front while middle-aged Smiths devotees pump their fists into the air at the back. Glasvegas are harnessing the past and reconfiguring it for the modern audience. People like tradition, but they also want hope for better times ahead, and it’s the newness to this band’s sound that everyone finds so uplifting: the revelation that modern indie can be vigorous, intelligent and genuine, when in the right hands.