Propelled by tootling brass or Los Lobos-esque accordion but underpinned by Zach Condon’s ethereal, other-worldly vocals, Beirut are beyond time and fashion.

A musical and geographical conundrum, their approach is part Mexican mariachi ensemble, part New Orleans funeral procession, part Eastern European muzak and part Yorkshire brass band.
On Friday, they somehow emerged from their subdued chaos sounding like nobody else.

A loose, ever-changing collective fashioned by Condon — imagine a less rosy-cheeked, more mumbly, New Mexico version of Keane’s Tom Chaplin — Beirut’s three albums have slowly built a cult following capable of filling the Forum to discomfort and who knew almost every last word of almost every lonesome song.

Even doubters could hardly help but be swept along by the gentle breeze and, despite the absence of anything resembling stagecraft from Condon or his band, what a magically beguiling business it was, exuding lovelorn loveliness and, most elegiacally on The Shrew, the natural warmth that only a tuba can bring.

An unannounced cover version of Serge Gainsbourg’s La Javanaise slipped by and Siki Siki Baba (a version by Kocani Orkestar made the Borat soundtrack) was remodelled as a spaghetti western theme but those covers were trumped by Condon’s imperiously beautiful material.

Mount Wroclai (Idle Days) was several dream-like songs in one, A Sunday Smile was almost poppy and Postcards from Italy could have broken the heart of a robot.

They were only with us for an hour but sometimes the finer things come in smaller doses.