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But this is big, beautiful, snow-capped music to elevate the spirit, and no one band owns the monopoly on that. Only an idiot would gaze at the Matterhorn and whinge that it's just a rip off of Everest.

How, though, do you squeeze a mountain into a tiny corner of , a pub in the very centre of Mold?

With difficulty, it seems, at first.

I'm tardy getting into this latest chapter in the Absurd's easy metamorphosis of Mold into a honeypot of fascinating leftfield culture. And the band have only just arrived themselves. There's an atmosphere of slight panic about them. Local music savant and friend-to-all-good-bands, DJ Fuzzyfelt, explains that this particular line-up of Yucatan have only had a handful of rehearsals.

This is their first live performance. And given the dynamic and sonic range of their music, it's not something easily busked through by bashing away on one chord and claiming to evoke the spirit of punk.

Absurd nights at Y Pentan provide other challenges for bands whose sound would ideally be filling acoustically-designed concert halls chiming out of PA's the size of tenement buildings. The sound system is limited. It's quiet. There is no pro sound engineer wielding a bank of effects to smooth over any missteps or glitches. Normally bands of this expansive ilk like to drown everything in shifting echoes and reverbs like Arctic fissures. The only reverb in Y Pentan seeps in when someone opens the toilet door.

So the band shuffle onto the stage looking almost as nervous as I would have been in their situation.

The first track rather hiccups into being. Some extraneous notes and missed cues bely the lack of rehearsal and threaten to trip the band up. But there is an innate beauty and grace here - in the melodies and the reverent atmosphere chambered by the arrangements - that lifts the audience as well as the band. The violin and the keyboards slip into place and the band's confidence begins to grow. Especially as they realise that we're rather loving every moment of it.

And thank god for the lack of reverb. Dilwyn's voice, dry and unadorned, really emphasises the vulnerability and soul in his music. We're not witness to easy, echo-by-numbers, chill out fluff, here. We're listening to a band reaching beyond themselves to create something wonderous for us on a chill Winter night in February.

So, something magical and unexpected ebbs and flows from the tiny stage, turning the corners of winter-battered mouths up at the edges, like the change of light that hints at spring coming. And the faces of the musicians on the stage, which had been furrowed with nervous concentration and not-a-little-fear, now glow with infectious joy.

As do ours.