Belle & Sebastian, as even their most zealous advocates will concede, can be a bloody frustrating band. Over the past eight years, fans have become accustomed to gigs marred by their chronic nerves, shambolic turns, miniscule volume and, in Stuart Murdoch, a singer who seemed pathologically wary of going too near his microphone. That they intersperse all this with passages of quite extraordinary music only compounds the problem. If Belle & Sebastian can play so radiantly, why can't they play so radiantly all the time?
Well, tonight they do. Just to spoil the stereotype, they are focused, consistent, slick and unerringly wonderful. For two hours, Murdoch and his troupe (currently numbering a dozen) play as well as they have ever done in London.
Contrary souls to the last, though, they've chosen an odd event to turn on the style. Rather than a traditional gig for the fans they feel so close to, Belle & Sebastian are entertaining a medium-sized venue full of competition winners from a local radio station. Those who remember the band's indie puritanism may be amused, too, to discover the prominent sponsorship of an Irish whiskey company, as well as that of the radio station and the venue's own beercentric branding.
Of course, Belle & Sebastian got over themselves about all this corporate stuff a while ago. Last year's terrific "Dear Catastrophe Waitress" album, produced by Trevor Horn, revealed a distinct new attitude, with the band keen to welcome new fans from beyond their devoted indie caucus. Until now, though, the fluency and confidence that record displayed has only been seen sporadically at gigs.
But from the moment Stevie Jackson picks up his harmonica and leads the band in a lovely "F*ck This Shit", through to the final delicate gambol of "Get Me Away From Here I'm Dying", staggeringly little goes wrong. Grand, complex and subtle arrangements like "Step Into My Office, Baby" and "Don't Leave The Light On, Baby" are rendered perfectly. Band members flit between instruments – trumpets and French horns, preposterous perspex bass guitars, recorders, an impressive collection of vintage keyboards – without any dithering or accidents. Murdoch, Jackson and Sarah Martin's vocals fade into each other beautifully.
Better still, the robust health of the band means that some of their earliest songs finally get the treatment they deserve, rather than being left to stumble out consumptively in the middle of gigs. Four rare songs from their marvellous second album 1996's "If You're Feeling Sinister") and two buried gems from their debut ("Tigermilk", also from '96) have all the grace and tenderness they deserve, but none of the hesitancy and all-consuming weediness that has often blighted them in the past. Murdoch, too, is a revelation, not least because he finally seems to have worked out how to use his mic.
Halfway through "Jonathan David", he steals a cigarette from someone in the crowd and tries to work out what to do with it for the rest of the song. "I just decided to start smoking halfway through that song," he announces coyly afterwards. His doctor, one hopes, would counsel against such a rash abandonment of inhibitions. But for Belle & Sebastian, now happily a proper band instead of an indie phenomenon, the adult world clearly holds boundless exciting possibilities.
