He sings in one of those accents from flyover country that’s impossible to locate and implausible to mimic. (Texas, by way of Northern Kentucky, but mostly Tulsa, as it happens.) He sings directly from his heart, with none of the restraint and filters and caution the rest of us would apply for public protection. He sings with resolute courage.
And he writes. Writes with simple eloquence about love and faith and isolation; the human condition; what every song and poem and novel is about, at the core: Life.
He performs seated, alone, cradling his acoustic guitar. He looks like nobody who is famous. Then he begins to sing, and all that remains is to whisper, “Oh, my god.” To say he is a special talent, is an understatement…