1st February 2005, Queen’s Hall, Edinburgh. The Delgados are playing a storming set, to nobody’s surprise. I’m there with Paul and Eamo, which is a common enough occurrence at the time. We’ve found ourselves an excellent spot just to the right of the stage, ideally situated for the holy trinity of sightlines, acoustics and bar.

The set list will fade in the memory – though I don’t remember there being any truly outrageous sins of omission – but odd details of the night will linger.

Motherwell are playing Hearts in a cup semi-final as the gig is taking place, and score updates are requested periodically from the stage and enthusiastically provided by those audience members with fancy new phones that can access the Internet.

The ‘Well look nailed on to make it to Hampden, but the Jambos pop up with a couple of very late goals to take the match to extra time. The news is not well received. “The next song,” comes the waspish announcement, “is called All You Need Is Hate.” They play it with considerable gusto. It’s funny what you end up remembering.

Later on the same tour, Eamo goes to see the band in Glenrothes, where the crowd is doting but undeniably sparse. As for so many acts before and since, there seems to be little in the way of crossover between critical adoration and commercial success.

With a thriving record label and recording studio to manage, something has to give, and the band announces that they are calling it a day. (In happier news, courtesy of a 120th minute winner, Motherwell do make it to Hampden after all – where they get summarily thumped by Rangers.)

17th August 2023, Kelvingrove Bandstand, Glasgow. The Delgados – deep joy – have reformed for a series of gigs, and are playing a storming set, to nobody’s surprise. I’m there with Paul and Eamo, which isn’t quite such a common occurrence these days. We’ve found ourselves an excellent spot just to the right of the stage, ideally situated for the holy quaternity of sightlines, acoustics, bar and toilets.

An outdoor gig is a dicey prospect in most circumstances. An outdoor gig in the west of Scotland, even at the height of summer, is asking for trouble.

On stage, Emma describes how the band has spent the preceding days frantically scanning the forecast for this evening, trying various different apps and eschewing the bearers of bad news. As she speaks, it’s still just about dry. My own app suggests it might just stay that way. It does not stay that way.

That said, after the initial monsoon, the deluge does ease off a little. Finally, a cheery voice from the audience: “It’s stopped!” “Ah, that’s good news,” deadpans Alun. “This song is called Child Killers.” Eighteen years away, but they still know how to work a crowd. It starts to rain again, harder this time.

When bands don’t split up, they end up going in one of a few different directions. Some, reluctant to turn into their own tribute act, continue to write and record with diminishing returns. Loyal fans politely applaud the new songs at the start of the set before going apeshit for the classics at the end.

Others choose not to swim against the tide and just perform the songs that made their name several decades before. And there’s always the ‘play your biggest album in its entirety’ trick, appealing both to the Mojo-subscribing purist and the lapsed casual fan.

But here is a band who split almost two decades ago, with minimal fanfare, and certainly with no suggestion that it was anything other than permanent. So in the absence of any new tunes, we know what to expect: an hour and a half of greatest should-have-been-hits.

Eighteen years. Someone born on the night of that Edinburgh gig could legally have bought a drink at this one – though a quick glance around suggests there’s nobody here who fits that description.

Instead, it looks suspiciously like the same crowd from the Queen’s Hall, just a little stouter, a lot wetter, and a quarter of a lifetime older. The years seem to have been kinder to the band than to us, though admittedly I’m watching them through the forgiving filter of a five pint haze.

A gig is much easier to date than many life events. Until recently, you’d have an actual ticket stub to remind you. Yet in the moment, watching the same people play the same songs just as magnificently as before, the Queen’s Hall could easily have been last week. But the reality is of youth turning to middle age; of friendships dwindled and new ones nurtured; of births, marriages and deaths.

The relationship between music and memory is a powerful one indeed. I’m glad it’s dark now, and raining harder than ever, because hopefully nobody will see me crying.

I don’t know what the band have in mind for the future, or what the future has in mind for me; but if I have to wait another eighteen years, so be it.

See you up the front in 2041. ■