Immediately upon entering the Water Rats Theatre (I wandered in all cool 'til a security fellow told me I couldn't do that for all the tea in China, consequently making me look a little bit of a dick while my name was ticked off the guestlist) you can see Josh T. Pearson. It's not as if he's on display or anything, he's tucked away at the side watching Joe Gideon & The Shark (whose final song was a master class in tension and release with a huge evil/lovely chorus as a payoff), but everyone is drawn to him. People look round, strangers talk to him and, of course, there's that massive beard. It's like a light for moths. And a maze, very possibly.

Now, we know there have been a few problems for Josh T. Pearson to deal with over the last couple of years. The immense pressure of living up to his crowning debut opus with Lift To Experience, some root canal work, a spiritual crisis that seems to dog him still in some ways, and one of the more expectant fanbases in independent music all seem like quite a lot. To then have to turn up to shows and have people pester him… well, maybe he enjoys it. The man is the closest thing to a legend (in the mystical sense) working today, and one only has to spend some time in the same room as him to realise this. His songs, still waiting to be recorded, are brutal and delicate, swarming with and writhing in glorious feedback from a helpless Fender amp, and constructed without any regard to construction. He is seemingly governed by something not in his head, just in his mouth, enunciating wildly in that sweetly destructive voice we all associate with triumph and loss in equal measure.

Obviously, 'The Devil's On The Run' gets a noble sing-along from the assembled, and we all feel rather good about ourselves. Other songs are mammoth in length, dynamic of poise and completely entertaining. That Josh T. Pearson seems so much more together, and that his songs are much more understandable than they used to be, is miraculous. The demarcations between autobiography and religious whimsy are still delightfully obscured, but we at least know that the torture (if that's what it was, or is) is close to being over. We can see in tonight's Pearson a fine, fine artist whose attention to his craft is unrivalled. The silence in the room as he plays is testament to that.

Devastations, then, have a tough act to follow. They valiantly have at it, though, introducing some of the more intense and frighteningly noisy (my ears are still clanging as these words are being tapped out) tunes from their brand new Yes, U LP. 'Oh Me Oh My' is as sugary as it is sour, very conflicting and slightly sexy in a Nick Cave lusting after your girlfriend kind of way. Bassist and main vocalist Conrad Standish preens and stomps around the tiny stage like Freddie Mercury with more pronounced emotional problems and an attitude where it's not enough to just flamboyantly shrug off your insecurities.

When they escalate and explode into blazing outpouring of sleazy noise, as on 'What's A Place Like That Doing In A Girl Like You?', they are beautifully horrendous and more than a little bit affecting. However, technical difficulties and a tendency to over-emote during the more plaintive sections prevent their set from being excellent. Instead, it is merely very attractive and accomplished, with massive promise still, despite being three albums in. Tempering the massively expressive guitar experiments is helping them become more emotionally diverse, using wildness with less liberty to make its presence all the more significant when it finally does appear. Best of all, they've kept the depressive qualities of the middle-of-the-night, clutching-your-only-possessions intimacy at the forefront. Now, it's just widescreen and polished. Masters of sorrow, Devastations have, conversely, brought a large amount of joy this evening.