Withered Hand

In only a couple of years, Withered Hand have profited heavily from enthusiastic word-of-mouth promotion by their fans and a passionate love affair with Scotland's music bloggers. Little wonder, then, that tonight's home-town show at Electric Circus has drawn a healthy crowd. Mindful of an expectant audience, singer-songwriter Dan Wilson is all business as he takes the stage, rolling up his sleeves and conferring studiously with his supporting cast. Wilson has a firm local reputation as an eminently likeable fellow, and his amiable bantering with the crowd—a consistent feature tonight—sets an easy tone for the evening. “I've got a cold and I'm losing my voice,” he says, in the nasal tones which have become his trademark. “But there's no refunds.”

Theirs is a joyously ramshackle take on folk music, close in spirit to New York's anti-folk scene, and offers a far more compelling live experience than traditional acoustic troubadours. Technical flaws threaten to derail proceedings at first: on 'I Am Nothing' and 'New Dawn', much of the texture and heart of Wilson's voice is sapped by a tinny microphone, while 'Providence' is halted in seconds by the cacophonously over-amped drums.

However, these quickly prove to be passing concerns. 'Cornflake' gives Wilson and backing vocalist Neil Pennycook (he of Meursault fame) free rein with the vocal harmony, while 'Religious Songs' is a predictable highlight, with its sleazily introspective lyrics and a chorus built for singalongs. A late personnel change, as Pennycook leaves the stage and cellist Hannah Shepherd picks up a bass, heralds the debut of some new material in a garage-rock vein. It's a curveball from a folk band, but the sense of urgency and scuzzy instrumentation works remarkably well. Withered Hand are a friendly, polished live spectacle, and tonight lends ample credence to their burgeoning reputation as one of Edinburgh's best new acts.