As strange as it seems now, there was a time when I never thought I'd get on with The Decemberists. Sure, I appreciated what they did and thoroughly enjoyed Her Majesty... but they didn't capture my heart enough for their literate pop to infiltrate my mind. Maybe it was an age thing, or maybe it was a lack of patience. Either way, that was before The Crane Wife, and before tonight.

Prokofiev's 'Peter And The Wolf' plays from the PA as the wait begins to take its toll on my empty stomach, and everything is beginning to take on a surreal hue. They've opted not to allow photographers into the pit tonight, much to the consternation of DiS' snapper who would normally smoke to alleviate his frustration - but not this evening because, again at the band's request, he isn't allowed to light up.

These minor irritations are quickly forgotten when, after a bizarre spoken introduction over the PA inviting us to say hello to our neighbours in the crowd, the band arrive on stage. Bouzouki in hand, Meloy strikes the opening chord of 'The Crane Wife 3', the track that also opens their new LP of the same name (minus the number, of course), and the journey begins.

The Decemberists' stock-in-trade has always been songs steeped in narrative - that their singer worked in a bookshop is no surprise - but with this new record they've married an obscure Japanese folk-tale with pop songs of universal relevance and beauty. At its simplest level, The Crane Wife is about love and loss - emotions 99.9% of us can relate to - but like all the great stories there's as much depth in there as you want to look for.

Musically, too, they've been refreshingly adventurous on this record. Their folk roots still shine through tonight, particularly on older songs like 'Billy Liar' and '16 Military Wives', but it's the performance of proggy, three-part opus 'The Island' that really sets the standard. It starts with an instrumental funk groove before metamorphosing in an instant, Meloy taking centre stage with his acoustic.

Imploring us to 'Come And See' while picking away at a plaintive melody, the singer shoots a glance to his left before giving the signal. Nate Query's bass comes in right on cue, then John Moen on drums, next an electric guitar fill from Chris Funk... and before my ears know it, the entire band sound rushes out of the PA like a tidal wave breaking across a hitherto peaceful shoreline.

'The Landlord's Daughter' begins slowly before building into a frenzied Irish jig, quickening the pulse and exercising the feet, before the bitter, mournful conclusion of 'You'll Not Fear The Drowning' comes in and dashes that short-lived joy against the rocks. Thirteen minutes on record, 'The Island' is one of those wonderfully emotive live experiences that could last twice that long and still leave me craving more.

A confession: I bought a Decemberists T-shirt afterwards, and I never buy T-shirts at gigs. As a symbol that they've finally conquered both my fragile heart and cynical mind, perhaps that's perfect.

Photograph by Gary Wolstenholme