After settling down in Bush Hall, it’s clear that tonight isn’t going to be your average ‘sweat-and-lager-up-the-walls’ type of gig. I arrive early, but as the venue fills two sides line-up beneath spotlights that hang lazily from the Hall’s grand walls. Boys and girls sit opposite each other, forced face-to-face while candy-floss indie-pop is thrown into the room by two PA stacks standing down by the stage. Looking around the room then, at the chandeliers and sculpted walls, it seemed as if an old-money millionaire had decided to throw an impromptu school disco - except now I get my sugar high from expensive beer instead of economy fizzy drink and strawberry laces.

First up on stage are Bill Wells’ band. Immediate thoughts of ‘it’s a lovely day for a film noir comedown’ hold true until the end of the set; even when it’s the sort of performance that means you sit down and put your phone on silent. I assume that the large, bald, sad-looking man that shakes his head every time we applaud is Bill Wells, as the rest of the band seem to look to the piano player for leadership like he’s the most maudlin of all music teachers. Their cool lounge cast against the constantly bubbling murmur from the bar at the back of the room only serves to sharpen the sombre tone. Indeed, for the first three-quarters of the set the closest we get to a vocal is a lonely whistle from the familiar-looking multi-instrumentalist stood stage left. The girls next to me swoon over him: “That bass player’s well fit”. It suddenly becomes obvious that he is the coolest kid at this particular disco.

Frankly, I can’t see what Richard Swift does to attract the small crowd eyeballing him close-up like a curly-haired curiosity. Though his songs are peppered with sharp one-liners, there is nothing immediately arresting and to be honest I find him slightly irritating. His band’s piano-led swag-rock is satisfyingly noisy in places, but the whole thing seems to verge on a pomposity not befitting of the understated Mr Lekman.

Although seats are ditched as people make their way toward the stage in anticipation of his arrival, Bush Hall is still nowhere near being uncomfortably packed. I’ve never seen Jens Lekman play live before. So I, along with significant numbers of the crowd, am surprised to see the dapper bassist from Bill Wells’ band emerge onto the stage with a guitar just bolder in stature than a ukulele. He tells the crowd that he is going to play the first song without the aid of a microphone, and soon his dreamy baritone, - half Morrissey, half 1950’s Harlem doo-wop – demands the silence of everyone else in the room. ‘Happy Birthday, Dear Friend Lisa’ is a typically honeyed opener to an hour that rolls from the celebratory bop of ‘A Sweet Summer’s Night On Hammer Hill’ to the downbeat solitude of ‘The Cold Swedish Winter’. Throughout, though, Jens’ lyrical bite keeps things from getting too rich – “Are birthdays happy, or just a countdown to death?”, from ‘Are Birthdays Happy?’ and “And I saw my face on a screen / They filmed us from a helicopter / The most frightened face I've seen / Red in the face like a lobster” from ‘Do You Remember The Riots?’ – show the morose, attentive side to Lekman that recalls the honesty and humour in bands like The Smiths and The Television Personalities.

By now every girl in the room is throwing eyes at the charming crooner on stage. Even his backing band – the three brass-toting beauties and beat-keeping blonde that played with Bill Wells – are clearly in love with him, making tonight the most entertaining episode of Blind Date EVER. Jens, mate – I’d go for contestant number two. Modern classics ‘Black Cab’ and ‘Pocketful Of Money’ are reeled off back-to-back in a double-barrel of pure gold while ‘Maple Leaves’ and ‘Julie’ keep up the standards until the end, when the returning hero decides on an impromptu serenade for those leaving in the bar - ‘I Don’t Know If She’s Worth 900kr’ and ‘Tram #7 To Heaven’ again reducing the sound inside Bush Hall to Baritone and tinny acoustic guitar. The eerie hush gives way to rapturous applause and then excited chatter as the school disco empties and everyone goes home happy after this hour long sugar rush of near-perfect modern pop.