THE singer-songwriter, then, both a product and chronicler of troubled times. The post-9/11 landscape has proven particularly fertile for earnest young men and women with acoustic guitars and an intimate knowledge of Bob Dylan's back catalogue, a brand new batch of sensitive solo artists, and an entire generation ready to listen to them.

Folk musicians usually work within two major realms, the political (the gritty documentary style of Phil Ochs) or the personal (the confessional poetry of Leonard Cohen).

In extremis, folkies from the former school tend to be preachy and dry, while those from the latter tend to be mopey and wet.

Stephen Fretwell deals with the personal, but the spirit of this gig was far from naval-gazing introspection.

Much to my delight, the crowd was punkishly rowdy and highly vocal, and Stephen clearly enjoyed sparring with them with, stepping away from the mike and letting the faithful bellow their way gleefully through bittersweet choruses.

Stephen made his name in Manchester, has a way with a quirky lyric and a fair number of his tunes were in waltz time, like a less gimmicky Badly Drawn Boy.

Once the band came on, they spent their time approximating various incarnations of the Byrds, from pristine 12-string jangling to Sweetheart Of The Rodeo country-rock.

Some of it was offensively bland. Some of it was exceptionally pretty, and those moments made you forgive him the rest.

Worth keeping an eye on, just about.

Updated: 11:15 Monday, February 21, 2005