Two empty stools sit patiently onstage, one awaiting the arrival of an indie-rock legend, and one to hold his whiskey.
The legend in question claims he still needs to "drink myself brave to do this". And as he's stripped down to just an acoustic guitar, you may sympathise, although it's hardly a hostile audience.
You'd think that such a prolific songwriter would be beyond such worries. As one of the few musicians who could honestly claim to have been involved in more bands than Andy Bell, Lou Barlow is, quite literally, an old hand.
Then again, perhaps this is the environment performers fear most. The indifference of a typical mid-afternoon festival slot may, perversely, be preferable to the intense critical worship bestowed by the small number capable of lamenting a dropped note on the little-known track you composed when you were seventeen -and can barely remember.
It's important then, that the fans know exactly who's in charge. One way of stamping authority on a performance is opening with a cover version, so Lou does just that. A memorable take upon 'Writing', a Will Oldham number, is a statement of intent, a point of order demonstrating just how special an occasion this is, from both perspectives.
It's not often you can sit in a smoky basement with a group of people who would happily endorse your every indulgence.
It's a bit like the embodiment of the ultimate Lou Barlow jukebox if, when you put your money in the slot, ninety percent of the time the jukebox decided to play a completely different song to the one you requested, and make a gently sarcastic comment too.
Requests for Dinosaur Jr tracks are very quickly shot down, but in playing what is largely a mixture of Sebadoh and Folk Implosion material, Lou brings to this tiny stage the same blend of artistic temperament and petulance that have always mingled, to varying degrees of success, within his music.
Debauched tales involving The Lemonheads' Evan Dando, and admission of copyright theft from the most unlikely sources, mix freely with contemplative readings of 'Flame' and 'Natural One', in turn sitting happily next to the long lost material.
A solitary new song, poignantly composed for the unknown, hypothetical 'real father of Jesus Christ', is as devilishly subversive as anything Barlow has recorded up to this point.
It's difficult to please everybody, particularly if you've spent the best part of twenty years building a widely disparate audience.
Fortunately for Barlow, it's equally as difficult to resist his particular brand of intimate guitar expertise, his little jokes at our expense, and his heart-warmingly frequent references to his girlfriend, standing proudly at the side of the stage, emergency bottle of whiskey in hand.
Typical mid-afternoon festival slots will never seem the same again.
