An hour before the doors are due to open DiS spots a group of about six people huddled together under a makeshift blanket. They've obviously been there a while, too, fending off the perishing cold best they can. Nothing new for a Saturday night on any city centre street in Britain you might think, except these people aren't selling The Big Issue or begging for spare change – four of them are wearing t-shirts adorned with the name Glasvegas, and even if it means catching pneumonia first their mission of ensuring entry at the Glaswegians’ first ever show in this part of the world is unassailable.

Indeed, there seems to be a growing fervour that can only be described as Glasvegas-mania at the moment. Tonight may only be the second date of their first real UK tour thus far, but by the time the doors are open the queue has stretched all the way around the block and it isn't long after that the show is completely sold out. Not bad going then for a band who are still unsigned – although DiS hears that a deal with Columbia is imminent – and yet to release their first widely available record.

Despite the obvious feeling of anticipation, DiS is only too aware of previous cases where hyperbole has superseded the end product. So before the band take the stage trepidation becomes the common sense, and the most failsafe of options.

When Glasvegas do finally emerge, partially unsighted by a thick glow of lighting that resembles some form of red mist, literally, one can almost taste the butterflies floating from stomach to stomach en masse. Disappointment at this stage would be nothing short of disastrous. Needless to say that, 30 seconds in and amidst a blistering crescendo of reverb-infused white noise, all our fears are resolved. Anyone fortunate enough to have heard the extremely limited seven-inches or demo recordings will already be familiar with the undeniable quality of the songs contained forthwith, and these make up the majority of their set this evening.

The difference between listening to them on vinyl and seeing and hearing them played live is truly immense. Watching singer James Allan – all quiffed up, ‘50s shades and dressed in black – recall his tales of social workers ('Geraldine'), departing parents ('Daddy's Gone') and dancefloor flare-ups ('Go Square Go') is spellbinding in itself, the last strains of emotion dripping from his bittersweet tongue amidst the latter's terrace chant outro accordingly.

What makes the performance even more spectacular and unique is the musical accompaniments that surround the lyrics. Sure, the My Bloody Valentine/Jesus And Mary Chain references will follow the band for the foreseeable future, but make no mistake about it: Glasvegas aren't an art school exercise in creating new levels of white noise-focused sound. These songs have a depth and meaning that would resonate the most hardened souls whatever the setting, and in new composition 'Polmont On My Mind' they have possibly the most heartbreaking story of institutionalised hell since a certain Johnny Cash spoke of his 'Folsom Prison Blues'.

Unpredictable to the last, the band end on a feedback heavy rendition of The Ronettes' 'Be My Baby', and for these ears at least my initial beliefs about Glasvegas finally reach fruition; if ever Phil Spector were to produce an in-house shoegaze band this is what it would sound like.

Overall, their 30-minute show is nothing short of awe-inspiring; scenes have previously been built around bands like this and, on tonight's evidence, we may well be saying the same thing in the not too distant future about Glasvegas.

Photo: Gary Wolstenholme