NEW Yorker Jesse Malin's latest album is called The Heat.

Considering that the first thing you learn at Lazy Rock Hack school is how to come up with lame record title puns, Jesse must have worried about the potential for cheap-shots like "this album left me cold, huh huh huh." In actual fact he is currently enjoying the type of breathless critical acclaim that Uncut reserves only for its cutest, most Ryan Adams-esque American alt. country poster-dudes.

Jesse wasn't always a serious singer songwriter, and his journey from hardcore punk to post-9/11 street-poet has been a quite remarkable reinvention. The Heat represents an attempt to reconcile the visceral thrill of ramshackle garage rock with the weightier, more introspective lyrical concerns of his earlier solo work.

The stripped down piano 'n' guitar set-up of Sunday's show explicitly favoured the latter, and engaging as it was, I couldn't help being disappointed that we didn't get to see Jesse embracing his inner punk.

His reputation as an open and generous performer is thoroughly deserved. His writing, as bestpal Ryan Adams has pointed out, is often stunning. But for all the Big Apple banter and song craft, I simply wasn't moved. He is quoted as admiring Kurt Cobain and Joe Strummer, lyricists whose savage music amplified the fire and brimstone seriousness of their words. Their spirit was not invoked frequently at Fibbers. Jesse is great with his band behind him. Maybe next time he'll bring them along and blow the roof off.

Updated: 09:57 Tuesday, January 25, 2005