Two years ago, Adem Ilhan stood hesitantly at the brink of a solo career. Since then, his debut album, Homesongs, has been critically acclaimed, and, judging by the number of bodies squeezed into this sweatbox, Ilhan's embattled and embittered songs have discovered a public beyond the folkatronic twiddlings of his old band, Fridge. Yet he's still awkward, nervously looking out over the crowd. His every murmur sounds like an apology and it's only a matter of time before he starts saying sorry for real.

"There's a lot of to-ing and fro-ing today," he says quietly, clambering across the stage to grab an acoustic guitar. But Ilhan enjoys the game of musical chairs that evolves, grinning mischievously as he and his four-strong band scatter to different positions and pick up different instruments with every song.

Though his past is cluttered with unlikely sounds, the cosmic theme of his new album, Love and Other Planets, has given Ilhan a chance to push his lo-fi experiments to the limit. There is a woozy piano accordion, fluttering violins, glockenspiels, double bass and myriad multicoloured musical toys.

But it's Ilhan's new affection for drums that sends his sound into orbit. Tambourines strike cymbals as the gentle storm of Warning Call erupts. The broken, hard rhythm of You and the Moon means the harmony-rich chant just stops short of sounding like something you would hear at a Girl Guide pow-wow.

Ilhan remains an introspective bedroom poet, but now his fragile feelings explode with an expansive joy that makes the bluesy melancholy of Homesongs' Cut seem sterile and claustrophobic. These Are Your Friends fits snugly beside the aggressive happiness of These Lights Are Meaningful but, this being Ilhan, all hope pools into doubt and his vigorous vocals fall to a cagey whisper. He's no Buck Rogers, but he floats through a universe of his own making.

· At the Bongo Club, Edinburgh, on Wednesday. Details: 0131-558 7604. Then touring.