I walk into the upstairs room in Clwb to find signs telling me not to enter unless I hear applause (I’m not that popular) and not to talk when the bands are playing – audiences probably shouldn’t need to be told this but experience tells me that it’s better to draw a line in the sand from the start! There are rugs and cushions laid out on the floor. Loose have got the right idea here tonight. This is exactly the kind of atmosphere that these bands should be enjoyed in.

The entertainment begins with Lily Green taking to the stage looking like some sort of Amazonian Norah Jones. It turns out that she has far more in common with Tori Amos than the jazz daughter of Ravi Shankar. Lily plays piano and for the most part is accompanied by drums and some kind of odd choice of funk bass. The songs she plays alone on keys are the better ones. She’s got that kind of Amos/Kate Bush thing going on but in a good, kooky way, like Little Earthquakes before Tori went off her head and started getting sexy with chickens.

The filling in tonight’s sandwich is a man known only as Finn. He’s dressed like a medieval extra from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Pudding bowl haircut, white puffy shouldered tunic and mad socks. Good start. I’m pretty sure the first song of the set was in Icelandic and fairly sure the second was in English. It really is hard to tell. The English songs are sung in that drawn out English-is-my-second-language accent that I always associate with Gruff Rhys. Indeed, if I’m not being too lazy in bracketing together mad languages, some of the songs could almost be off Mwng. Three songs in and Finn is looping his own vocals and harmonising with himself. Neat trick. I’ve seen it done more and more of late but he pulls it off to such an extent that when he’s stood there, guitar slung over back, not actually doing anything while 3 different vocals loop from the speakers you don’t really notice his lack of participation. Elsewhere in his set, he could’ve passed for Thom Yorke, one song bore a passing resemblance to Street Spirit. Only passing mind. The set closer, in keeping with the slightly surreal air of this evening, was a cover of Moon River. Somehow this managed to be heartbreakingly beautiful and not cloying and contrived. Top marks Mr Finn.

Me and my Dad have this theory that when you reach certain ages you start to like different things (18 – curry, 30 – bitter, 35 – red wine, 45 – saying ‘all the best’ instead of goodbye). As it turns out, 32 is when you start fancying women that play string instruments. This has very little to do with the music, I just thought I’d mention it.
Seeing as I’ve started both support’s write ups with visual comparisons, I’ll continue the theme. I thought that Olaf Arnalds looked like a young Stuart Pearce. I then thought how absurd this was and how unlikely it would be that Arnalds would charge around a football pitch, clatter anything above grass level and indeed, play for West Ham. Aggressive is not a word that can be used to described this man’s music. Ethereal, glacial, sparse, minimal. All words that would be a lot more fitting. Olaf Arnald’s songs themselves are instrumental mini symphonies. Tonight he’s joined by a string quartet who compliment his piano and glitchy, scuffed blips and beeps perfectly. The electronic aspect could easily seem forced when married to the orchestral beauty of the strings but it works, song after song. The music draws you in, it has a dream like quality (proved by the fact that the cellist reminded me of someone I fancied when I was 18 and I missed half a song drifting off, wistfully pondering missed opportunities). You wouldn’t make sounds like this were you to grow up in Wolverhampton, this is music born out of it’s surroundings. The reference points are obvious, fellow Icelanders Sigur Ros, Royksopp and Eidur Gudjohnsen (OK, 2 of the 3). It’s something you need to hear or see live, it’s very hard to put down in words.
Before the last song, Arnalds informs us that he’s played in Clwb before, downstairs in 2004 with a hardcore band called Fighting Shit (click the link, it’s worth it). For all the blissed out wonder of his songs tonight, maybe he’s got more of Stuart Pearce in him than I thought.