Βι¶ΉΤΌΕΔ

It's midweek in the Black Box and we're on the cusp of another Open House festival, when the people of Belfast celebrate their cousins overseas, and things come over all bluegrass. The Cathedral Quarter comes across all Appalachian, and the double denim is dusted off. While not an official part of Open House, Devon Sproule served as a mighty fine appetiser.

In a rare move, a Belfast crowd is paying attention to a support act, in the form of Ryan Driver. Two women chatting at the bar are pointedly shushed as the Toronto native takes to the stage and starts singing. And what a voice! Like Jeff Buckley without the drama, like John Martyn without the booze, it's crystal clear and expressive, while his guitar work is complex, making one wonder what he'd be like with a full band behind him.

And that's part of the problem. Aside from that voice there's little to distinguish Driver from the rest of the acoustic pack. The songs bleed into each other and the set runs maybe 10 minutes longer than it should. It's only with the last track, when he's joined by Devon and her backing band, the Unmarked Animals, where his music really comes to life.

Born in Canada and raised in Virginia by hippie parents, Devon Sproule is a breath of fresh air in what can sometimes be a staid and overly precious genre. Folk music should be for the people and Ms. Sproule certainly demonstrates this, connecting with the audience in this intimate, all seated venue. She takes to the stage, her slight form dwarfed by the mic stand and asks for a capo. Then holds an clarinet reed up. Then, in an adorable Southern drawl asks the tour manager, "Can you get the rest of this? The dressing room was so comfortable I left all my crap behind".

From that moment onwards she can do no wrong. I've seen bands alienate an audience with a sentence, but Sproule captivates from the very start. It's like the film Amelie - by the end of the show every man leaves the venue a little bit in love, and every woman leaves wishing she was her best friend.

Whether it's turning the dilemma of having nothing in the fridge into a Tom Waits style bluesy torch song, or giving props to her friends' bands in a short detour off her own material, she's the centre of attention. Her husband, singer songwriter Paul Curreri, is in the backing band, providing an unmistakable frisson as she romances him on stage, and some uncomfortable moments as Sproule's honesty shines through.

The music is direct and to the point, but with some interesting subtleties, Sproule claiming that she wrote one song to have an excuse to bring a steel drum on tour. But there's one true star of the show and that's the lady herself. After the show she decamps to the Open Mic night in LaBoca where she treats us to an unannounced set. She's never tired of performing and I could never tire of listening. Μύ

Shane Horan