Gig played on 27/01/07

With his wild beard and shapeless black suit - which betrays the odd shiny patch and clearly hasn't been pressed for some time - he resembles a down-at-heel undertaker in some backwoods American town. Will Oldham's demeanour suggests a man almost entirely without vanity, which in these image-conscious times is not only laudable, but also hugely endearing. Simple ego assertion, of course, is hardly worthy of his energy and creative spirit, which are channelled into the lowering and introspective, occasionally robust but mostly fragile blend of alt-country, gothic blues and pastoral folk he plays as Bonnie "Prince" Billy.

Given the cultish appeal of the man's music and the worship he inspires, this show is remarkably relaxed and refreshingly irreverent. The acoustics are blessedly clear - every string scrape, brush shuffle and murmured backing vocal resonates in its own space - and Billy and his band (featuring a pianist who switches between a baby grand and keyboards) are focused and intense. It's their obvious comfort with one another, though, that makes it feel as if we're sitting in on a studio session, witnessing set-list changes, short breaks and easy banter about everything from Nazareth's record sales to the youthful innocence of their drummer.

Joining the band for a good part of tonight's set is Dawn McCarthy of Faun Fables. Her sweet, haunted tones provide the perfect foil for Billy's cracked gruffness and the pair echo such famed country music duets as Gram Parsons / Emmylou Harris and Kris Kristofferson / Rita Coolidge. His sizeable back catalogue proves Billy is no purist and latest album "The Letting Go", from which he draws heavily tonight, displays affections both likely (Ernest Tubbs, Nick Drake, Harry Field's folk anthology, The Flying Burrito Brothers, Fairport Convention) and wholly unexpected (Fleetwood Mac, John Denver).

His band's laid-back demeanour may charm, but it's the play of light and shadow in Billy's songs that makes for this evening's magic. Whether carousing through a cover of "Love Hurts" (complete with a muse on the heft of the 78rpm recording), tearing through the chunky and twangtastic "John The Baptist", turning the divine "Cursed Sleep" into a quasi-Celtic keen or filling the hall with the light, tremulous loveliness that spills from "Love Comes To Me", the mad-bearded bloke in the shabby suit cuts a curiously commanding anti-figure. Exultant and otherworldly his music may be, but flesh and blood real, too.

by Sharon O'Connell