It’s little wonder that Canadian singer-songwriter Ron Sexsmith is being treated like some kind of prodigal son tonight. After all, he is more than qualified to join the ranks of Ireland’s acoustic army. Having spent much of last year on these shores, Sexsmith has learned what makes Irish audiences tick.
With that, Sexsmith sounds like a Rufus Wainwright for the masses, or perhaps a more wry Aimee Mann. He effortlessly delivers his accomplished set like a sort of crooning choirboy. More importantly, as demonstrated on tracks like ‘This Boy’, Sexsmith has the blessed ability to infuse a feelgood factor into his unique strain of evocative melancholia. His dedication to sonic texture and visible lack of pomp seem to elevate him above the usual chin-stroking, coffee-house posturing often associated with his ilk.
More importantly, Sexsmith is able to provide a comic relief of sorts while pottering around the stage – he regales tall tales of his fellow musicians and of long lonely nights, while peppering the set with half-hearted cabaret turns. Sexsmith understands that to win over the audience, not only does one need an arsenal of songs, but also a good line in onstage banter.
As you might guess, Sexsmith has little trouble on that front, and the audience is suitably reverent, precious even. Like fellow in-pat Josh Ritter, don’t be surprised to find yourself in the Dublin Castle humming away to ‘The Idiot Boy’ sometime soon.