Herman Düne @ Mono, 12 Jan

French-residing Swedes in a crowded Glasgow bar, and they're making a gangly folk-sound that's part birthday party and part broken-down car. It's four men with bags under their eyes: David-Ivar is chicken-legs and unfeathered elbows, playing guitar and hooting. Andre is bedraggled, long-armed; he smokes a wilting cigarette. There's a drummer and a percussionist too, who sometimes swaps in on trumpet. And they play their songs: twisty songs with mispronunciation and pop-culture references, so tender and so human, songs about birds and winter ice and long-distance love. Sometimes a tune goes on a moment too long, but then a few beats later there's a stamp of snare and a guitar solo outta nowhere, golden and thrilling. So we dance, we nod, we think of our silly lives, our chicken-legged and bedraggled lives, and we hear them sung: right there, in front of us.