Saturday night in August and I'm standing in the crowded pit at Frankston's Singing Bird Studios, waiting for Eddy Current Suppression Ring to return. It's been a long time coming. Apart from a few festival appearances in 2016, the beloved garage rock band's last official headline show was in 2010.

But this year there have been smoke signals: a secret set at a Piranha Skateboarding event. A surprise single, Swimming Hole, and a new EP. A one-off at Melbourne's The Night Cat that sold out instantly. Then an announcement of a free all-ages show at Federation Square the night before the grand finale, surrounded by a few smaller gigs in Anglesea and Frankston. Chat groups buzz.

The first few songs at Singing Bird Studios don't happen. Tattooed drummer Danny Young gets into it with his brother, the guitarist, and the band. Bassist Brad Berry spins around like a screw trying to find its groove, while frontman Brendan Huntley, in his signature oversized shirt and black golf gloves, scans the crowd for a spark.

Sounds good – like a fun garage rock band. Nothing special. The crowd nods along. Then a few songs in, it happens: a shift in energy. The band doesn't do anything differently. There's no forced encouragement; it's a subtle recalibration. Suddenly the band pops, people hug each other, Huntley climbs up onto the speaker stack to sing, and I can't remember the last time I smiled so broadly at a concert. It sounds like some mystical nonsense. The mystical part is how this moment always happens at an Eddy Current show.

Formed in 2003 at a vinyl pressing plant employee party, the members of Eddy Current Suppression Ring grew up in Frankston. So did I. An hour south of Melbourne, Frankston is a rich-poor town built with its back to the sea. On clear days you can see the Melbourne skyline shimmering in the haze across Port Phillip Bay. Close enough to give it a shot, but far enough to make you wonder if you should go. Subcultures are strong here, based on graffiti, skateboarding, metal bands and mischief. If you get good at any of them, don't get a big head about it.

From this melting pot came Eddy Current, their hometown codes intact. Record and release their own albums. Book their own shows. Don't do it if it doesn't feel right. This attitude was baked into their music: garage rock that talks with drums that swell. They got famous in 2006 for recording their debut LP in four hours. It's a classic. Small, catchy songs about suburban dreams: cool ice cream, not enough money, going to work. It might pass you by on record, but in the moshpit, in the crowd, it becomes cathartic. Noble, even. Eddy Current lit a match and everyone wanted to be near it.

By 2010 the band was getting worried about the growing demands of their rising popularity. The previous year they'd scooped up a $30,000 Australian music prize for their second LP, Primary Colours. In April they played a sold-out show to 1,800 people at the now-defunct Palace in Melbourne. I was there – it felt like a victory lap. Just a band far away. "I had to ask myself if I wanted to see my type of band play a show that big," Mikey Young told the Guardian about it. They soon went on hiatus.

Fifteen years after that headline show – a month after seeing them in Frankston – Eddy Current were back in Melbourne on Friday night at Federation Square. The programming team on the outdoor stage had been putting on free concerts for acts such as Kneecap, Caribou and Robbie Williams, drawing 10,000 people. Mikey told a friend he thought only 2,000 might show up. Instead, the crowd stretches as far as the eye can see.

They start Memory Lane. "I walked down Memory Lane where everything looked pretty much the same," Huntley sings, in his long coat and black gloves. "People smiled, people waved. They told me of the road they paved." Sounds good. You can't see the band behind the bright lights, but they look great on the big screen. Now they're playing Wrapped Up – Huntley's got his coat on and he's doing his funny nervous dance, eyes screwed shut, earnestly trying to run.

The band builds to the final chorus and it happens, the huge crowd gets to its feet to join in: "I'm wrapped around you." Everyone around you is smiling. Huntley climbs onto the speaker stack. Fireworks explode on the distant horizon. Mystical nonsense. The Melbourne skyline shimmers – not in the haze of the distance, but everywhere.

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