Homecomings are traditionally happy affairs, peppered with whopping and cheering. There's plenty of both at singer-songwriter Stephen Fretwell's low-key return to the town where he once worked in a crisp factory and an abattoir, but otherwise this is a bile-spewing, vengeful affair. There are tales of venom, "fancy men", swearwords and cads who ran off with the artist's loves. One of them is given an identity. "This is about a guy who nicked my girlfriend," announces Fretwell, "It's called Brother." You could hear a pin drop, not least because the "brother" and the cads could be among the 100-strong audience in Fretwell's former local.

Since moving to Manchester, pent-up bile has become Fretwell's stock-in-trade and propelled him to bigger venues than the one hosting this warm-up for his UK tour. When he walks on stage with an acoustic guitar in hand, he's the Scunthorpe Dylan, delivering tales of the "green-eyed monster". Then a band joins in and he "goes electric", although the locals eschew shouts of "Judas" in favour of: "Play one for the barmaid!"

Fretwell has had a haircut since he was last round these parts; his image is now more mischevious-looking footballer than wild-haired hippy recluse. But between songs, his sharp wit reflects a chasm in his work between Dylan/Cohen acoustic rough diamonds and more textured, piano-dressed anthems in the area of Damien Rice and Keane. The record company and Radio 2 presumably prefer the latter, like Rain, which has instant lighters-aloft appeal. But other jaws are entitled to drop for Rose, a terrifically uncomfortable tale of desolate towns and "tourniquet arms" which suggests that Fretwell will become better the more bitter and twisted he becomes. Perhaps that "brother" will be around to help him out.

· At the Garage, Glasgow (0141-332 1120), tonight. Then touring.