As a genre, rickety indie-pop carries certain advantages. It allows, for example, tonight's support Zoey Van Goey to try a new set-up, disclaim “we’re flying by the seat of our pants” and have any subsequent blemishes enhance their appeal rather than detract - the jammy scamps…
With only his guitar for company, Damien Jurado is in a surprisingly chatty mood, blethering between - and occasionally during - his alt-country laments. Such wit is a perfect antidote to his lyrics, like calculated bonhomie designed to unburden a miserable load. As the interjections become more frequent, it's apparent that they are indeed an emotional bulwark - not for the audience, but for Jurado. “These songs depress the hell out of me,” he jokes, but once the laughter subsides, the air of trauma remains. Jurado's passion helps overcome the numerable cliches embedded in otherwise affecting songs like the sinister posturing of The Killer, while his digressions provide interesting insights to others, including Ohio (penned in a codeine-blackout) and Lincoln (thought lost, later resurrected by a conscientious friend-of-a-friend). But most importantly they lighten the atmosphere, turning what could have been a stark and upsetting ordeal into a delight.
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