Grandaddy @ Potterrow, Edinburgh, 23 Mar

A wintery chill envelopes the queue that’s snaking round the unflashy concrete exterior of Potterrow. It’s formed mainly of men old enough to recall the reverence Grandaddy first inspired, nigh on two decades ago. Technical hitches in the soundcheck cause a 40-odd minute delay, leading some revellers to gripe about the cold and the ticket prices, but others to the philosophical conclusion that a Grandaddy show being held up by faulty machines is deliciously poetic.

When proceedings eventually kick off, Amber Arcades present an altogether more sprightly prospect. The Dutch band, led by Utrecht songwriter-slash-UN human rights lawyer Annelotte de Graaf, play summery songs, suitably nostalgic for the occasion. Filtered through layers of effects pedals and reverb, these are indie-pop nuggets laced with psychedelia and noir. It’s Alvvays meets Warpaint, fed through a blanket of fuzz.

Grandaddy’s arrival is preceded by a short film projected onto the back wall, soundtracked by the instrumental title track to their debut LP, Under the Western Freeway. Sheaths of corn blow in the wind, while factory chimneys fill the air with plumes of toxic smoke. Sheep graze in fields, while the screen crackles and pixelated ticker tape falls from the skies. The sequences capture the abiding threads of Grandaddy’s music: America as a place where nostalgia and destruction are equally entrenched. It’s the perfect introduction.  

Unfortunately, by the time the band arrive, the sound issues have yet to be resolved. “It’s a fucking rat’s nest up here,” says Jason Lytle. For the first three tracks, his vocals are so low in the mix they’re barely audible, the lyrics unintelligible. As the band hits its groove, things improve, and Grandaddy blast through a set-list that traverses 20 years lithely and tunefully.

Hewlett’s Daughter is propelled along by Kevin Garcia’s resonant bass, and one of the finest and briefest drum solos known to indie rock. Laughing Stock, from that 20-year old debut album, has a chorus with a melody about as sweet as anything written since.

2003’s Sumday had the unenviable task of following the band’s seminal Sophtware Slump and as a consequence is at best forgotten, at worst maligned. Now It’s On, El Caminos In The West and Lost On Yer Merry Way, however, are reminders that the album is filled with slacker rock tunes par excellence. Meanwhile, Evermore from the new album is delivered with aplomb and received just as enthusiastically.

As a performer, Lytle is engaging and deadpan. When the sound improves, his voice comes through as sweetly, finely-pitched and distinctively as it does on record. He interchangeably bashes bleeps out of an effects desk and solos from a guitar. A hush falls upon the boisterous crowd as he plays the opening piano chords of He’s Simple, He’s Dumb, He’s the Pilot, a beautifully weird three-part indie opera that, amid stiff competition, stands as the band’s finest track. The song sends shivers down any spine within an earshot and is the climactic moment of a performance which, like the band, manages to triumph amid the technological failings around it.