Just Joshin'

He stumbles onto the marquee stage, all pipe-cleaner limbs and hair and fierce eyes. He's like some manic survivalist, holed up in a Texan bunker, waiting for the end of days. Somebody in the audience shouts out in praise of the beard. He nods.

"Thanks. It grows on you."

And then something hilarious takes place. Josh T Pearson starts to do stand-up. He deadpans that his beard is almost ten years old and they're going out together for a drink, to celebrate. He tells jokes about bartenders and toilet seats. He's looking out to the audience, primarily here to see headliners the Drive By Truckers, and all he sees is many men, of a certain age. But a few ladies start to wave and Josh is glad.

He's got a 30 minute set, his songs can last over 10 minutes each and here he is, blethering. He tries to intro 'Sweetheart I Ain't your Christ', but the mood is too silly, so he tunes up the atmosphere with 'Woman When I've Raised Hell'. Some light relief, then.

Let me reiterate. His album, 'The Last Of The Country Gentlemen' is probably my record of the year. It is a searing confession from a deceitful and damaged soul, falling out of grace at record speed. On 'Country Dumb' he reckons that he's surely the last of the line, his DNA corrupted, the Southern notion of honour a mocking refrain. It's like the sweltering gothic of Tennessee Williams and William Faulkner, weirdly crooned.



And so he signs off with 'Sweetheart I Ain't your Christ'. The voice is tender, but also repellent.

"It ain't Christmas time," he declaims, "it's Easter, Honey Bunny, and I ain't the Saviour you so desperately need."

The hands are playing these intricate guitar lines. The eyes look pitiless. There's not been a more brutal song since Nick Cave sparked up 'The Mercy Seat'. Behold, the artist.