Unless you're looking to win the heart of some fat middle-aged biffa with an unhealthy interest in line-dancing you'd do well to leave off 'country music' when filling in your interests on that dating agency form you're trying to keep quiet about.
There's an unshakeable stigma surrounding country, a bad smell almost that it's still struggling to scrub out of it's pores. That glib image of ten-gallon hats and good old boys whooping it up to the pitiful like of Garth Brooks still unfortunately holds sway.
The biggest fallout from this is that so many people would dismiss the prospect of travelling halfway across London to watch Steve Earle in concert with a lazy shudder of distaste.
Well it's time to wise up, suckers. This guy's the best songwriter since Springsteen was declared the future of rock 'n' roll way back when. And if that don't strike you as a particularly glowing endorsement then f**k off back home to your Placebo CD's. We'll discuss it further when you're old enough to shave.
The biblical downpour tonight is somehow appropriate; there's something almost antediluvian about the raw, fundamental themes that run through Earle's best work; nothing here that wouldn't have won a been-there look from Noah as he looked back upon all those lost loves he'd never see again.
Steve too of course has been there, done it, got the rehab bill. A whole career spent mapping out the cartography of human frailty and tonight we get a wide overview of the many shades of pain that sometimes only whiskey seems to soothe.
'My Old Friend The Blues' is as lovelorn and broken as ever, the best song that Gram Parsons never got round to dredging up. One soft guitar and a linctus-rich voice and, well, the truth; you're never alone with sadness.
New songs like the Pogues-ish 'Galway Girl' and the title song off latest album 'Transcendental Blues' don't suffer in comparison with the old stuff either. Earle himself might have filled out over the years but there's nothing soft-bellied or flabby about his material.
Two short hours then in the company of American music's most unflinching practitioner. That he chooses to encore with his own twisted take on Nirvana's 'Breed' shows exactly where he aligns himself and it sure ain't buddying up to Billy Ray Cyrus.
There's more poison and love here than in a thousand Slipknot concerts, more angst and hard-won redemption than lies in the whole of Marilyn Manson's cliched little heart.
If mild titillation is as high as your aim reaches then the mosh-pit remains the best place for you. Steve Earle showed tonight though that only in reflection do your own tears shine brightest.
