William Elliott Whitmore

“Hey! That just cost me four quid!”

The man on stage – sat on a centrally-placed chair, a banjo on his lap and a beaten acoustic guitar lying to his left – has just knocked back a glass of whiskey in one, a drink he as good as pleaded for. One attendee obliged his request, and is immediately, jokingly, offended by his swift, merciless consumption of said liquor. It doesn’t even touch the sides.

“It’s okay,” says the man, squinting through the spotlight beaming directly into his eyes, “I’ll drink the next one slower.” Come that next drink, William Elliott Whitmore chooses to take his time. It’s an attitude mirrored by his set, one that runs, wobbly, for well over an hour.

Not that anyone in The Borderline tonight is complaining: when Whitmore offers those with numb feet and dwindling attentions the opportunity to leave towards the end of his set –_ “I’m not used to playing for this long,”_ he freely admits – not a soul ascends the stairs. His insecurity at playing for such a prolonged period does become apparent, though, as he (accidentally, surely?) plays ‘Lift My Jug (Song For Hub Cale)’ – “About the first hobo I ever met” – twice. This, though, can probably/possibly be attributed to his alcohol consumption: after that first drop of single-malt, he sips another four shorts while also paying no little attention to a few Budweisers.

Until his deliberate self-destruction at the hands of the demon drink – “I had a drink problem, but now I can afford it,” he says – Whitmore is an engrossing performer for the right reasons. He sings with his heart in his throat, stamps his foot and hacks at his banjo as if cutting through the overgrown undergrowth of some alien forest, the foliage before him so thick it takes an hour’s effort to move six inches forward. His songs – tales of backwater townsfolk tending to the land that their roots lie so deep within, retellings of everyday encounters made special by superbly affecting couplets, tributes to his recently deceased horse – are the sort that stick with you long after their performer has, literally, stumbled from the stage. They’re the smoke in your shirt, the taste of overpriced beer on your tongue, the rambling tramp on the Victoria Line home; they’re universally understandable and immediately touching.

“I’m honoured to be here,” he says, and his appreciation, regularly vocalised throughout, is patently apparent. “I’m honoured to be alive… y’know, this is a crazy world we live in… a crazy, wonderful world. Thank you all for coming, really… I appreciate you listening to my songs.” The mixed crowd – old-school punks mix with individuals who look as if they’ve stepped straight from a boardroom, while a smattering of boot-wearing city-based wrangler-wannabes stomp and hoot along with contemporary bluegrass-ish could-be-anthems like ‘Diggin’ My Grave’, 'Midnight' and ‘When Push Comes To Love’ – never once allow their appreciation to falter, to waver under the pressure of the ticking clock that seems to affect the evening’s attraction.

That Whitmore is sadly unable to end his set on a high is the sole disappointment of an otherwise entertaining evening; that he recognises his own failings, though, is one of many expressions of the man’s modesty, a welcomed trait in this current climate of self-congratulatory quotes running the length and breadth of stories about acts that mean precisely squat to anyone with a sense for what is and isn’t absolutely mediocre. “Wednesday night, fuck or fight,” he remarks mid-set; upon arriving home I do neither, but the mind boggles as to where, and how, Whitmore’s evening finished. Home on the range is where his songs may stem from, but this well-travelled troubadour is far from homesick yet.

Sick to his stomach with whiskey and cheer, though, maybe…

_ William Elliott Whitmore is on tour now, click here for remaining dates._