By City Life's David Sue .

In many respects, there was never a chance that things wouldn't happen for Ryan Adams.

Year upon year of critical unrecognition (when he fronted Nashville alt-countryists Whiskeytown), penury and failed relationships might not be good for the soul, but it's the kind of stuff that Troubled Singer-Songwriter types are sure to be made of.

A good enough reason to lump Adams in with every other acoustic boho around then. But then most don't single-handedly revive Americana as an MTV pop phenomenon. Or, possibly for the worse, inadvertently resurrect Elton John's career ('This is dedicated to Ryan Adams... for making me want to try harder' gushes Elton on his recent comeback album).

Debut album Heartbreaker ushered in the Adams' solo process, written while on the run from Nashville to New York (after a failed relationship), and bypassing the kind of cowpoke balladry that characterised most Americana merchants for a more freewheeling, acoustic potion that sits him closer in spirit to Gram Parsons or Let It Bleed-era Stones.

Second and universally-praised album, Gold has been touted as Adam's redemption record. And while he's hardly the type for settling down, the results are a good deal sprightlier than is fair for a man who's magnified on the back of his too-fast-to-live, beautiful loser persona.

Live, there was never a problem anyway, his gigs being of the kind where nattering at the bar qualifies you for castration and cover versions of Wonderwall (almost guaranteed at this Manchester show) and White Stripes songs are occasionally thrown into set. Which for a chap who's just a single consonant away from being the man who wrote Summer of '69 is some feat in itself.

Ryan Adams, Apollo, April 7.

Tweet