The ‘Welsh Bob Dylan’ at Clwb Ifor. More like a Welsh Johnny
Cash as he shuffled on, taking quite a while to find his guitar
amid the instruments stashed behind the speakers.

Black leather coat, black trilby, black trousers and then, just
before start-up, a flourish and out with the black sunglasses.
It’s 10.30pm in March in Wales. Eh? Maybe he’s got sensitive
eyes.

Backed by a bassist and drummer it all started fairly well and
it was good to see a largely young audience paying homage to a
creature of the Sixties, feted as one of folk rock’s biggest
talents.

Mr Stevens, no longer a young whippet, had to struggle to make
himself heard between songs and his singing voice was
understandably muted but still poignant. Well he’s a folkie so
he’s not going to belt it out.

Having missed him first time round in the 70s and only seen one
song by him on S4C it was the perfect chance to see him.

But there was a warm welcome, respect . . . and disrespect.
Were people there just to be seen, or what?

After halfan hour, the twittering twentysomethings were
chuntering on so loudly throughout the songs that it became a
pointless exercise. Dozens of wittering twits drowned out the
act. So is he a legend? I don’t know cos I couldn’t hear him.

Time to go.