Nothing is like scuba diving. It might be the way light and sound behave differently underwater, it might be the whole world which is always right beside you but couldn't be explored, or it could be the hyper-awareness of your own breathing. Two members of Múm, looking unearthly or at the very least quintessentially Icelandic, breathe heavily through mysterious tubing. The Rosemount is plunged into some subaquatic dimension, populated with all kinds of weird instrumentation. The band asks if the TV stationed over the bar can be switched off, which has the crowd in mirth. It's glowing silently in the background a bit like the moon, and, if you think about TV is a bit like the moon, they point out. On reflection - as I sup a brew named White, which somehow tastes like beer mixed with liquid cornflakes - TV is a bit like the moon: it embellishes all kinds of remote distant fantasies when on closer inspection it proves to be nothing but a cold worthless rock.

They're a band who've undertaken changes. I'm no Múm historian and I'm without the internet for now, so I have to rely on memories of ancient Jockey Slut articles I read back in the early 00-ies, when they were a happy-go-lucky three piece writing oblique songs about cycling. On record their music was almost not there at times, a faint warm thud, a glitch, a scrape, the ghost of a string. I have no concept of what the onstage experience was back then. It's a theory I have that like Broken Social Scene, who started as a two piece then ballooned into a many-armed collective due to underwhelming gigs, that Múm absorbed more members to create a fuller, engaging live sound. Ironically it was round about this time I actually started switching off the new Múm records that I heard. It was too full. There was no space in which to let your head drift, the kitchen sink charm lost under a thick veneer of post production. As a result most of the night's material is alien to me, but here and now in the flesh; it all makes perfect emotional sense. There's the most bizarre, effective blend of unusual instruments, a shy trumpeter permanently in the wings and the cello / violin contributions are sublime, often buried they penetrate at just the right moment like some divine knife. Mostly however it feels like this larger crew endows less individual responsibility and greater freedom. Some odd, presumably Scandinavian, hop-dancing ensues to an unlikely arrangement of beats.Blessed Bramblesthe words of which make them somehow oddly Welsh, flowed out on gold rays. It transpires to be an ode to Iceland's three plants. Not three kinds of plants, just three plants. Green Grass of Tunnel we learn is a birthday song. The audience member who's birthday it is gets tossed a Múm towel. Its the first truly electronic infused number with a swelling harmony and shuddering kick-drum hits which have Lerdy glowing all asunder. Their charm remains intact and my head can't help but spin

Leaving the stage, even Múm look surprised by their own magic. I can't identify what it is about the Rosemount, but its been home to some the friendliest gigging vibes. If we could nestle them in our collective bosom, no doubt we would. They return for a one song encore with a delirious whiteout, featuring the brutal volume you'd expect from Sunn 0))) and a blaze of white light. I don my shades. No really, its not something I usually carry around after 11pm. It can only be divine providence. As a measure of its success, I spend most of the gig wishing I was Icelandic. There's something in all the Icelandic bands I've seen, Sigur Ros, Bjork, Amina, that's inseparable. Whilst all pursuing distinct, separate paths there's some intrinsic grain deep down in the kernel; something they all share and couldn't hope to hide.

Transcribed by Reverend Chris

postscript: and further warmth must be bestowed on the support Radarmaker; once again excellent. I say once again, it was up there with their very best performances. And Macca concurs. I was always wanted a parrot, or some kind of concurring animal, perhaps its the pirate in me, perhaps its a lack of confidence, nonetheless in this instance Macca is more than adequate. In fact his judgement may be significantly better. The new five piece configuration is working and Noah looks to be gaining confidence on the mic, the balance is awesome (good work Múm mix-guy, assuming you're responsible) and Woz on backing vocals is an alarmingly fine discovery. You'd hope after this amount of time they'd have stopped surprising us, and quite possibly themselves. You'd expect the mine to be pretty thoroughly excavated. Its almost enough to make you want to slap their handsome faces and demand why they didn't do many of their older songs, particularly Sashegyi like this the first time. But its evidence of a continual development, a journey filled with fresh surprises. Long may it continue.