He sits, stands again. Sits again. Stands again. Shuffles his stool. Sits. Stands. Fiddles with an amp. Fiddles with his guitar. Cracks a bad joke. Tips his head forward, down to the microphone angled upwards, towards his sizeable headwear and even-larger beard. He mumbles something and strums; the noise pops eardrums throughout the venue. To say that Josh T Pearson’s first few minutes on stage tonight are awkward would be an understatement – to the uninitiated, he resembles a bumbling drunkard, far from home and buzzing on whatever booze was close to hand at any given moment.

Those in the know, though, understand that the man’s a delicate soul; his shyness occasionally overwhelms his amazing ability to charm an audience from the get-go, his masterful hold on a select few whose hearts swell with each and every syllable that tumbles from the gap within his spread of facial hair. Tonight, early-set proceedings are such that a handful of attendees – presumably in primarily for so-so support act Viarosa (great lyrics, not-always-amazing arrangements) – depart as soon as the midpoint of Josh’s second song, although their reluctance to sit through any more is almost understandable: the Texan troubadour, lost in the post-Lift To Experience wilderness for so long lest we forget, really does begin badly. His guitar is too loud, too distorted; his vocals, although bold, lack clarity beneath the wash of amplified strings.

Then, a hush descends, deafeningly striking. “This is a quiet one,” says the hunched figure before the fewer-than-there-were-before, and the relief amongst the faithful is almost palpable. From this point on, song three of however many, attentions rarely wander, driven forcefully into corners by unnecessary sonic bluster. Adoration, pure and truthful, seeps from pores; eyes twinkle at their edges as tiny tears dare to make their presence felt; lumps in throats threaten to disable the average punter’s God-given right to drink Guinness.

The most startling sensation felt – the immediate stillness that strikes the individual, rendering them statuesque save for a few tilts of the head to find a better viewing angle – is one informed as much by nostalgia, the memory of performances past, as it is by what unfolds on stage this evening. For while Josh pulls himself together to round his set off nicely, satisfied ticket-holders getting their moneys’ worth, previous performances such as this one were far better. It’s clear, in hindsight, that the spindly singer was never totally comfortable – perhaps under-attended shows in Hull and Coventry knocked his confidence – but at the time there’s a nagging voice in the onlooker’s head asking, “Is he really all that brilliant? I mean, I’ve read the acclaim in the press, and friends sing his praises, but…?”

No buts, actually: Josh T Pearson is a rare talent, a man who seems to become possessed while on a stage, as if invisible puppet masters are pulling strings, stretching his jaws wide and allowing a most-wonderful bellow to ring out around the room. His soul blazes, his eyes a fiery red behind the lids that so often remain shut. He’s a unique artist, and comparative off-days, or nights, shouldn’t put any newcomers to his precociousness off at all. He’s a special man, for sure; just not so special for forty-odd minutes on a chilly December night, 2006.

Photographs by Lucy Johnston