Straight out of Hypeland (or Cornwall as it is more accurately known), Thirteen Senses create a spectral, Spectoral kind of indie soaked in reverb, echo and longing – like the ghosts that stalk Coldsailor in the night. Indeed, singer Will South is like an amiable Frankenstein’s monster of Dad-rock, with Chris Martin’s keyboard hands, Mark Greaney from JJ72’s voice (in whispering mode) and James Walsh’s haircut. ‘Thru the Glass’ leaves the biggest mark, not just because it’s the only one most of the audience know, but because, sans-keyboard, it’s a howling most-likely-to anthem in waiting. Check them out while they’re still this side of credible.

Yeah, I know, Gomez. I know some of you are already shuddering at the prospect of a ninety-minute weed-addled bongo-infested schmindie strumathon that screams “we used to be students too!” But you’d be wrong to do so – that your correspondent turned up believing that they’d made a few albums of staggering neo-roots brilliance last century and have deteriorated ever since, but still left me grinning with insane joy by the end, says more than it needs to.

When word of latest album ‘Split The Difference’ and similarly its predecessor ‘In Our Gun’ came out, it appeared worryingly like they were straying away from accordion solos and ten-minute blues wig-outs in order to establish a few more Hits. The opening trio of ‘Bring It On’, ‘Shot Shot’ and ‘Love is Better Than a Warm Trombone’ prove that Gomez always had a way with a slightly warped tune, but following single ‘Catch Me Up’, denied the alt.FM reception it probably deserved through sunny disposition alone, suggests that they’re more concerned with writing songs rather than peculiar kitchen-sink song cycles. Not to be confused with the ‘ambient’ element of the band, though – at points like ‘In Our Gun’, where the band 'relax' and have a smoke, they seem so laid-back that they’re almost comatose, but are saved each time by either rocking out or, as displayed wonderfully in ‘Free To Run’ and ‘We Haven’t Turned Around (X-Ray)’, allowing the audience to belt the words along with them. This does also put further emphasis on the majesty of songs like the raucous ‘Get Myself Arrested’ and the glorious ‘Here Comes The Breeze’ the latter of which is easily the highlight of the evening by being sweet and epic, and is only really rivalled by the version of ‘Revolutionary Kind’ that morphs into ‘Hangover’ and then spirals into a sea of looped noise.

What’s more, you get three enigmatic frontmen for your money – Tom encourages the crowd and stalks the stage like an actually talented preacher Bez, Ben uses his gravel-gargling voice with such force that we’re surprised that we’re still standing up, and Olly chips in with the pregnant pauses and wailing feedback. They end with the customary ‘Whippin’ Piccadilly’, which as expected gets the room almost jumping off of its foundations, and you leave in the hope that one day they’ll produce a tune of equal measure and success. Respect.