Great concerts usually have that moment, often tucked away in the middle of the set or reserved for the end of the encore, where the band approaches an emotional pinnacle. As the song builds, the drummer pounds more intensely, the guitarists strum more manically and the singer reaches the upper limits of his range, screaming in an intense release.

Frightened Rabbit aimed for this effect on every song they played at the Fillmore in San Francisco May 19th. It proved to be exhausting, and not necessarily in a good way.

The Scottish indie rockers, at their best, play endearing tunes filled with male post-breakup angst. The chord progressions and melodies are designed to pack an emotional wallop, not necessarily to be innovative or interesting. Scott Hutchison’s lyrics combine testosterone-filled spittle with darkly humorous self-loathing. Add in his thick brogue and these lads have an undeniably powerful formula. Indeed, many of their numbers hit close to home during their concert. All the couples in the crowd making out and tightly holding each other were obviously getting something out of it.

But the scope of Frightened Rabbit’s sound often belied their attempts to connect with the listener on a personal level. They used to be a trio, and watching three dudes go to town on their instruments only to muster a thin, ramshackle sound had a real charm to it.

At their Fillmore appearance, they were a bloated quintet, and their newly found, stadium-ready sound was problematic. The bass (conspicuously absent from their previous lineups), synths and electronics seemed anachronistic. Everything added up to a monolithic tidal wave of sound that didn’t wash over the audience so much as drown them.

This move towards grandiosity was quite alienating. Frightened Rabbit weren’t the earnest, lovable self-deprecators that they were on 2008’s wonderful The Midnight Organ Fight. Rather, they were self-aggrandizers. They used to approach subjects like dissolving relationships and sexual frustration within their proper scope, treating them as the kind of confusing, enervating shit that everyone goes through.

At Wednesday’s concert they turned these molehill-sized problems into Mount Everests of neurosis. They postured themselves more like martyrs than people going through ordinary sufferings. Between songs, Hutchison joked about being twice as good as Jesus, and given what he was trying to achieve during the show, the quip didn’t come off quite as ironic as he might have liked. Straight from the opening number, “Skip the Youth,” they aimed for chest-thumping, shirt-clenching catharsis. But, there’s a limit on the number of peaks and valleys one can go through before the roller coaster starts making you feel queasy and want off.

Bombast didn’t suit them well. Great, caustic lyrics like “You’re the shit and I’m knee deep in it” and “This girl, she was nothing like you” got buried under all the overwrought heaviness. The best moments of the concert were when the band stripped away the histrionics, as on songs like “The Twist” or “Old Old Fashioned,” both undeniably catchy and clever tunes. On each, Hutchison pleads for human connection. And with more modest, humble arrangements, it was easy to get on his level.

Even better was when Hutchison took the stage solo for the encore, playing the fingerpicked, plainspoken ballad “Poke.” This simple forthrightness was much more moving than the rest of the overdone show.

As I filed out of the Fillmore, brushing up a little too close to my fellow concertgoers, I felt tired and lonely. No matter how hard I tried, the band’s huge sound kept me always just at arm’s length.