Stephen Fretwell

"I don't want to make eye contact with anyone - it's like playing in my Nan’s living room."

The restrictive environ of Henry’s Cellar lends itself as something of a double-edged sword to understated troubadour Stephen Fretwell tonight; ushering in an immediate buzz of intimacy for the capacity audience clambering for a peak behind big hair and pillars (that’ll be about 50 people, then) yet, by the sounds of it, possibly heightening a feeling more aligned with claustrophobia for the man himself onstage. The playing field, at least initially, seems pretty uneven. But Stephen frets well.

Although it appears a comfortable enough fit, seldom does Fretwell completely cut loose from his retiring demeanour until the heart-on-sleeve lyrical nature is temporarily eclipsed. None more evidence is needed than seen in the pared back, dark and stark Nebraska-era Springsteen feel that oozes so freely from ‘San Francisco Blues’, which also comes complete with a chorus punctuated by Fretwell’s seemingly abstract demand to_ “stick another wasp up yer nose”. With warring aesthetics such as these at play, and song titles like _‘William Shatner’s Dog’ to swallow, an obscure sense of humour continually skiffs the surface rather than characterising the set as a night out with a cheeky chappy from the chippy.

Full of northern distinction, though occasionally veering into a languid, mumble-it Dylan-esque quality, Fretwell’s predominantly clear voice is the main weapon on display here. Although the shotgun sloganeering of _“Chris Martin with big hair” _threatens to lurch over the singer like a menace, he simply doesn’t have the Bono complex or the shit written all over his hands to justify it.

Touchstones from his Four Letter Words EP as well as pieces from his previous album and the familiar chimes of ‘Emily’ steer the performance close to poignancy tonight. However, certain songs still battle for any kind of notability, given the limited palette that one man and his acoustic six-string can often have to offer after half-a-dozen ditties. But, a well-timed mid-set bass accompaniment is all it takes to help keep the embers burning and, although he ultimately fares well under the cramped conditions of this cellar, one senses that Fretwell could have a certain coyness to conquer if he seriously ain’t gonna work as Shatner’s hound no more.