โ€œI had a dog. He died about a year ago. His name was Boss. This is for my dog. I miss my dog.โ€

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There he is, in his dungarees, doing his thing with a guitar and a fuzzbox, singing songs about his dead dog. On a massive, open stage in broad daylight. You might, for instance, want something a little edgier, in a more noctural setting, in a small and tightly packed venue, for Seasick Steve that the Obelisk Arena at teatime. But, strangely, he works incredibly well here in this leafy setting.

As I walk up to the Obelisk Arena, I pass a group of kids โ€” 6 or 7 โ€” miming Steveโ€™s gutsy Blues riffs on air guitars, their faces scrunched up in mock-concentration. Elsewhere, families sit on rugs munching on their dinners, soaking up Steve in the background, and his somewhat idiosyncratic interpolation of the Blues. โ€œWhen you get home,โ€ he says, โ€œI want you to take off all your clothes. Especially your socks.โ€ Itโ€™s kinda funny, extremely likable. Heโ€™s there on stage, with a drummer, a harmonica player and a bassist โ€” whoโ€™re all sitting down for much of the set, and all look like they could be played by Billy Bob Thornton in the film of Steveโ€™s life.

He pulls out a one-string guitar โ€” which I think he calls โ€œDiddley Bo,โ€ before announcing โ€œIt sounds like shit.โ€ It looks like it was carved by Appalachian Indians at the turn of the last century, and he coaxes out of it some primal, fiery riffs. Iโ€™m reminded, in the way he holds the crowdโ€™s attention, of Leonard Cohen โ€˜s power over the crowd at the 02 on Thursday night. I wouldnโ€™t wish, of course, to suggest Steve was on a par with Cohen, but thereโ€™s something in the way one man of a singular approach to music can bewitch an audience.

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We miss your dog too, Steve.

Anyway, Elbow are on now โ€” gotta motor.