The sound of four pairs of stack heeled cowboy boots clip clopping onto the stage reverberates around a hushed but sweaty 100 Club. It’s so quiet; the atmosphere so thick with anticipation that the twinkle and pluck of the tuning instruments can be heard from the back of the room.
Dylan LeBlanc, an unassuming 20-year old peddling the sort of southern-fried folk whimsy of which legends are made, shuffles towards the mic and offers the first of a slew of well-mannered pleasantries he will rely on for the next hour and a half. His impeccable manners are surpassed by the, rootin’ tootin’ all-American authenticity he oozes. Cracked and tender, his voice is an instrument all on its own, whilst his Cold Mountain style get up (suit, flared trousers, starched shirt) is a sartorial lesson.
Complete with features and a haircut that mark him out as cross between Ashton Kutcher and a young Caleb Followill (his greasy locks are even tucked behind his ears), Dylan LeBlanc is a throwback. He is a throwback to a time when music was made for music’s sake, not to sell records or magazines, but as an outlet for darkness, emotion and stunning musicianship. ‘Proper’ music played by ‘proper’ musicians, then.
Playing songs from newly-released debut ‘Pauper’s Field’, along with the odd new cut, LeBlanc grows visibly into his set. At nearly an hour and a half long however, it was verging on laboriously self-indulgent by the end. The album, often brilliant, was given a different hue at The 100 Club. The beautiful, mid-paced laments were stretched out, as Dylan puckered up to his microphone, trembling then snarling his way around every word.
‘5th Avenue Bar’ benefits from a loud, rip-roaring coating as does a cover of crusty legend Bill Withers’ classic ‘Grandma’s Hands.’ LeBlanc’s band, steel sit-sown guitar included, is wonderful. The drummer (suited and booted of course) stands out as banjos and organs nimbly intertwine. A debonair and often amusing front man, LeBlanc is at his best when not concentrating. Lost in the noise, he begins to let go, the band follow suit and we get precious moments of real promise.
It’s a shame then, that his mix of contemporary (Black Keys, Midlake) and not-so-contemporary (Woodie Guthrie, Neil Young) Americana falls short of consistently enthralling. It’s a first London show at a venue famous for them, by an artist who could one day return to find his image framed on the wall alongside Strummer, Gallagher and Lydon. Tonight offered an insight into a fascinating new artist, teetering frustratingly on the edge of something massive.
Words by Ben Homewood
