Ron Sexsmith: Simple Joys

Ron Sexsmith's is not a talent that reaches out and grabs you by your heartstrings or your groove meter or any of the other kneejerk response mechanisms. His songs are a slow burn. At first they sound simple, perhaps a little too similar to one another, with their familiar folk chords and spare arrangements. And there's Sexsmith's voice: a grainy tenor that seems to rise with great, languorous ease from his throat and float around the note, then tumble, like an afterthought, over the edge of his mouth.

Even in a musical climate rededicated to the sensitive singer/songwriter, Sexsmith's charms are subtle. But listen, then listen some more, and it may dawn on you that those quiet charms amount to a gift for getting to the bones of a song. No bathos, no hip irony, zero attitude, just a few good chords and fluent, inspired phrasing.

After two years on the road opening for Sarah McLachlan, Radiohead, and Elvis Costello (who shares his producer, Mitchell Froom, and sings Sexsmith's praises frequently and passionately), the Toronto-based singer/songwriter is out on his first headliner tour, promoting his second album, Other Songs (Interscope). He was accompanied by a two-piece rhythm section when he performed a week ago Tuesday at the Kendall Café, where he undressed Costello's "Everyday I Write the Book" of all its funk and bounce, reinterpreting it as a stark, country-folk ballad played on banjo, accordion, and guitar. The clear, graceful cover sounded eerily like where the song might have come from in the first place.

Indeed, many of the tunes Sexsmith has penned come across as homier, sedated versions of Costello's work in the novel, ingenious ways they approach beauty and accessibility. But where Costello dives to the heart of his hooks, Sexsmith dances around them till you hardly know they're there. There is something old and ensconced about Sexsmith's music. The ballads are like lullabies, and the upbeat tunes summon some of the best pop traditions: the soaring "Average Joe" recalls Brian Wilson at his most luminous, the spirit of Ray Davies infuses "Strawberry Blonde" with a lopsided loveliness, and "Clown in Broad Daylight" (has anyone ever celebrated the restorative effects of such a sight?) rolls and revels in a soulful '60s feel.

Sexsmith's Kendall Café show was as genuine and unassuming as the songs. The bass player did double duty on accordion (Sheryl Crow squeezes box on the album), and the drummer played banjo, mandolin, and cello. Sexsmith's guitar, like his singing style, is limited in scope but fabulously nuanced; the brief, quiet solo on "Secret Heart," a melancholy meditation on tough guys from his debut collection, glistened with a rare blend of elegance and earthiness.

In "Pretty Little Cemetery" Sexsmith sings, "There's an old couple on the bus/Sitting next to us, my boy and I/And pointing to the graveyard/My boy turns to the old man/And says, `This is where you go to when you die/My papa told me so'/The old man said, `Yes, we know.' " It's a stark, unadorned snapshot set to a pure, lilting melody, and as potent a piece of songcraft as I've heard in a long time.

-- Joan Anderman