![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() The point is that you never know which Ryan Adams will turn up. Alone, after midnight, at the piano, his cracked voice soaring above the cigarette smoke and into the emptying cheap seats, he looks tired but content, and more than just a little bit drunk. Adams is still coming back out for more after half the audience - and all the band - have backed out of the fight and gone home. He plays an old Hank Williams song, and then makes up another one about Big Bird from Sesame Street. Adams, pigeon-toed and as skinny as a stalk of corn, is acting dumb, swearing a lot, falling over, telling (bad) jokes, speaking (even worse) cockney and talking about his mother. Six months before his Brixton Academy strop, at another venue in the same city, and Adams and his band are fizzing like firecrackers through a blissful, bluesy set of their new, and old, songs. Sulky boy, it seemed, really wasn't coming back out to play. Slouching from the stage, head bowed, like a bear looking for someone to trample on, he ignored the chorus of jeers that filled the hall to his right. ![]()
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