From the moment Hinson stepped onto the stage and offered a lopsided grin, the audience was rapt.
The Greys was sold out, and it felt sold out; with few seats, the layers of people standing created an unpleasantly hot and close environment, but no-one wanted to move further away from the awkward Americana musician they’d been waiting for.
Blinking owlishly and keeping his eyes firmly on the floor for most of the set, Hinson presented himself consciously, and was self-deprecating throughout.
His dungarees and drawl say Southern hillbilly, but peppered amongst his meandering anecdotes about small Texan towns and his family are tales from Manchester, Italy and Spain, showing a more worldly-wise character.
He’s shrewd enough to know his image plays a huge part in his appeal, but teeters on the edge of overdoing it; he ‘forgot’ lyrics, chords and the point of his stories with a frequency that seems practiced.
Nonetheless, his songs sound plaintive and raw even in the homely atmosphere of the pub.
Mostly drawing from his early catalogue, his guitar-playing was at times brilliantly tight and technical, but it was his yearning, unique vocals that drew the audience into his world.
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