Tom Brosseau

Talk about intimate: a room, an outhouse even, just a few chairs, enough space for 20, but only if we're happy to sit with arms and legs brushing each other. Tom Brosseau stands dead centre, flanked by microphone stands numbering two, but using neither. Amplification is unnecessary, a reverent audience and a crystal clear voice leaves technology obsolete.

Brosseau has arrived straight out of my image of 1960s middle America: fair of hair, sun-kissed of skin, enduringly courteous, straightforward, genuine. He sings with eyes shut and a world-weary aspect, but he talks with a small smile. He has an archaic type of charm, sadly lost in the world at large, but I imagine it rests in the dirt between the rows of corn in the Midwest; and is imbued in the thick hide of the bison; and is worn into the casters of the rocking chairs of cowboys too old and stiff to spend their days in the saddle. At any rate, Brosseau can stand in the middle of this small room, and command the attention of all without resorting to cheap tricks or impudent behaviour.

His trade is time-worn: there is no shortage of men with just an acoustic guitar, harmonica and voice to their name, bashing out their songs to all and sundry that will lend an ear. There are techniques to being noticed: revivalism, family connections, being really fucking loud, fucking up - Brosseau relies on none of these. His harmonica playing is fairly standard, his guitar playing is no more than (and certainly no less than) pleasant - attention is instead drawn to his voice and to his songcraft. The voice is pure of tone, swapping between a breezy, hushed whisper and a skylark falsetto. He pauses for weighted silence and often ends his phrasing with just a little twist or slide of pitch. He claims he is feeling a little hoarse, but it is barely audible - his is the raw silk voice, a neutral tool which can be dyed for mood and richness, its properties changing as lyrics move from dark to light.

As the last note rings out and we step from the outhouse onto the patio for space to stretch cramped limbs, the singer is moving around the space, greeting old friends with warm smiles and making new friends with every stranger in attendance, thanking them individually quite sincerely for their presence. I'll allow you to go and buy his records, for that you must. However, I will hide from you the details of his every gig, for the poor man would be saying his thank yous long into the night-time if he were playing venues the size his craft deserves.

Photograph from MySpace