BY JUD COST

Frightened Rabbit, a blood-stirring Scots rock band that, like most of its predecessors over the past 30 years, somehow captures the phantom sound of lost battalions of pipes and drummers as it reverberates from the green hills of its native land, brought down the house last night at San Francisco's storied Fillmore auditorium. There's some unexplainable Gaelic thread that runs through the cloth of just about every great Scottish band, from the Vaselines, Aztec Camera, the Delgados and Teenage Fanclub to Franz Ferdinand, Orange Juice, Glasvegas and the Jesus And Mary Chain, just to name a few.

Like the long fishing line of the Catholic church described by Evelyn Waugh in his 1945 novel Brideshead Revisited, you can run with the hook wherever you like, but at the flick of a wrist (or in this case, the martial beat of those pounding drums) you're right back where you belong, clapping one-two-three-four to the glorious sounds of Frightened Rabbit.

My baptism into the world of Scottish rock-a rousing 1983 show by Big Country at Wolfgang's in San Francisco-made me a lifelong addict, helplessly trailing along after every Scottish combo that came my way. I'd somehow missed seeing the Skids, a Dunfermline-based, art-punk trio founded in 1977 by Stuart Adamson, a band whose anthem "Into The Valley" was an undeniable cornerstone of this genre. When Adamson brought his new, widescreen outfit, Big Country, to California a few years later, I was front and center.

Formed by singer Scott Hutchison in 2003 as a duo with his brother Grant on drums, then picking up guitarist Billy Kennedy, rhythm guitarist Andy Monaghan and keyboard man Gordon Skene on the fly, the Glasgow-based Frightened Rabbit is so new to the U.S. indie-rock scene, the kid next to me mistook the support act, Chicago's Maps & Atlases, for the headliner. Admittedly, Maps & Atlases does have star power of its own in lead singer Dave Davison, the closest thing I've heard to the rebirth of fabled British belter Stevie Winwood.

The audience mis-ID of Frightened Rabbit reminded me of my own similar gaffe in 1982. When asked, "Who are these guys?" by some fellow traveler as a peach-fuzzed R.E.M. warmed up the house for Lords of the New Church at S.F.'s Old Waldorf, I answered, "I'm not sure, but one of them must be Mitch Easter..." (Easter, of course, produced R.E.M.'s then-current debut 12-inch Chronic Town but was never a member of the band, then going by first-names only on the record sleeve). 

Witnessing the R.E.M.-like near mass hysteria of a full house at the Fillmore, clapping in perfect time to virtually everything Frightened Rabbit played, made you suspect the rhythmic audience participation might have been beefed up electronically by an accompanying tape loop. It wasn't. "You may dream about someday playing the Fillmore, but being here is really blowing my mind," marveled Hutchison before launching into "Swim Until You Can't See Land," a high-water-mark epic from Frightened Rabbit's current album, Winter Of Mixed Drinks (Fatcat). "You've made this one of the best fucking days of my life," extolled Hutchison as the band wrapped up its concise 70-minute set. Most of those in attendance would have agreed that the feeling was entirely mutual.