Ethel Cain @ SWG3, Glasgow, 29 Aug

After a transfixing set from local support TAAHLIAH, the half indie/half emo crowd that has gathered to see Ethel Cain focus their attention on a singular iPhone. Held high above heads, its owner swipes between pictures of Cain and Queen Elizabeth, then between a saltire Scotland flag and a Union Jack. In the alternating cheers and boos, the crowd instantly bonds (I was personally tickled when a highly saturated Ethel Cain meme then came my way via airdrop). Hearteningly, it becomes quickly apparent that everyone in attendance is of a similar irreverent (and anti-imperialist) sensibility.

The 25-year-old Ethel Cain soon walks on stage to rapturous applause, and, within a second, my left eardrum is compromised by the person beside me roaring “MOTHER!!!” (For context: Cain has the lit-from-within, all-encompassing cool that qualifies her for the hallowed queer appellation, as well as her Instagram handle being simply @mothercain). Accompanied by an electric guitarist and drummer, Cain is centred against a modest set-up: a pared-down black backdrop and a very low-key light show. Wearing baggy denims, a loose red tank top (and face tattoos), she is hyper-casual but in control, ready to slay in her sombre alt-rock ministry. The smoky intimacy of the staging complements Cain’s nonchalant poise. She doesn’t deploy a swashbuckling rockstar strut, she doesn't need to – she commands the room with her own laid-back elegance.

Cain’s elegiac dreampop situates itself in a Southern gothic aesthetic – her lyrics detail gritty escapades, toxic and tragic relationships, tortured faith, school shootings and even cannibalism, and her visuals, whether on social media or in music videos, typically feature dog-eared Holy Bibles, revolvers, animal skulls, small town ennui, and her chain smoking with an air of indifference. She opens the gig with the isolated A House in Nebraska, and as everyone begins singing along word-for-word, it quickly becomes clear there are no casual listeners in the house – this is a cult fan base ready to worship.

As any enthusiastic Scottish crowd is wont to do, the crowd fill the first between-song break with the chant “Here we! Here we! Here we fucking go!” which Cain receives with a bashful smile and gracious address: “It’s our first time here, thank you so much for having us. This one’s called American Teenager.” The singalong that follows is a fervent cry that would rival even the most unhinged league of Swifties singing the crescendoing final chorus of Love Story. As we reach the line: 'And Jesus, if you're there / Why do I feel alone in this room with you?' in the anti-patriotism anthem, we hit fever pitch.

Such high energy is contrasted by the stillness that sharply comes over the room as Family Tree is played, on which Cain’s storytelling prowess and sonorous vocals are mesmerising. With her head pensively bowed, her voice bleeds: 'And take me down to the river and bathe me clean, oh'. Maintaining our awe during Thoroughfare, Cain pulls out a harmonica and plays it to delightfully piercing effect – one could say it was like Bob Dylan, if he served cunt. Later introducing Gibson Girl, Cain leads us into temptation, playfully cautioning “We’re gonna get a little slutty”, as the lighting turns red to accentuate the sultry track. Throughout her set, Cain deftly turns a dial of emotion and wherever it stops, it's always resonant.

Image: Ethel Cain @ SWG3, Glasgow, 29 Aug by Spit Turner

From the moment she stepped out onstage, Cain had the audience wrapped around her little finger, which takes on literal meaning when she moves down from the stage to be in amongst the crowd, tens of hands grasping for her. She sensitively embraces the outstretched arms, and, face-to-face with individual fans, she holds eye contact, sweetly creating very meaningful moments of connection. For many, Cain’s music is a vehicle for refuge and powerful release, as her raw, doleful sentiments are sung with a crazy amount of passion (the crowd keening 'God loves you, but not enough to save you' during Sun Bleached Flies is a particularly charged moment). As a sea of swaying arms moves from left to right, liberation is found in her lilt.

Cain exits the stage, and after only a mere minute of a “One more tune! One more tune!” chorus, she returns, and raising a bottle of Irn-Bru, she proudly proclaims “so good!” Finally, a seductive bassline is played, stirring the encore of Crush. Gleefully incanting 'LOW SLUNG BAD BITCH, BABY, COME AND GET YOU SOME!' incites a powerful rush.

Cain delivers a polished 50-minute set, finishing at a subway-permitting half-nine. And for all the morbidity and foreboding of her doomed-Americana throughline, the gig upholds an exceptionally warm sense of hope – the pervasive friendliness of the fans really put the fun in funereal. Dancing with traumatic memory, Cain’s artistry has a specific and intense impact, creating an uninhibited safe space for the young, troubled, and horny.

On a late summer night in Finnieston, we just witnessed a distinctive artist in the prime of her powers.