Whitmore is just a man who has something to say, and has some songs to say it with.

w/ Tim Barry

Mojo's, Columbia, MO

William Elliot Whitmore's unmistakably unique voice captivated me the instant I heard it. Its deep, bristly texture sounds like the tales of a turn-of-the-century coal miner. I was shocked when I saw that this hayseed songster was half the age his brooding, gravely voice might imply. At less than 30 years of age, Whitmore passionately crafts songs with experience beyond his years, and sings them with the voice to match. His lyrics weave directly personal, yet universal, stories of life, love, loss and death. His songwriting takes on a stylized, almost antique composition, using couplets and smartly choosing how each line interacts with the next. In "Midnight" he croons, "The blue bird can sing, but the crow's got the soul. I'm a dog among kings, with no self-control." His songs are reminiscent of anonymous folk songs that have managed to seep though generations to become part of our distinctly American culture.

As one hand clasped a shot of whiskey, another loosely coiled around a dirty banjo. Across eight tattooed knuckles, the words "LIVE FREE," were spelled out. The southern folk singer dressed in a plain blue collared shirt, with sleeves rolled up partially revealing intricately inked forearms. His bearded face was topped with a lopsided black derby, which unbelievably stayed in place throughout his mechanical gyrations as he croaked hauntingly beautiful songs. The gruff, unshaven Iowa native calmly spoke in his signature sandpaper voice, "Run amuck, what the fuck?" before gulping down the double shot of rye.

Whitmore began the night with "Cold and Dead," a song performed without banjo accompaniment and indicative of the occasionally sobering nature of his songs. In it, he sings, "Who will sing with me a hymn/For the light that has dimmed/For the heart that no longer beats/And even until death/when nothing else is left/ and the pain has finally ceased." He's unafraid of tackling the more intimidating aspects of life, and manages to avoid sounding whiny or sentimental. Whitmore is just a man who has something to say, and has some songs to say it with.

After a few songs, or maybe when the whiskey began to register, Whitmore began taking requests and casually chatting with the audience, telling anecdotes of the tour that involved his friends (and opening acts) Tim and Caitlin Barry, and Josh Small. When talking to Caitlin Barry, Whitmore hinted at the "simple" way of life on the road. "Soon I'll be more animal than man," he teased rubbing his emerging beard on his scruffy cheeks. The troupe of folksters looked straight out of a state fair, lugging steel guitars, banjos, and fiddles along with them.

Whitmore finished the night with "Johnny Law," a song on his upcoming album, set to be released next year. "This song is about how I hate the fucking cops!" he joked before plucking his banjo. The upbeat tempo and clever lyrics was a fitting end to a well-rounded night of folk-infused, deep south-inspired honesty. | Glen Elkins

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