There’s really not much to say. You see him there for yourself picking and singing along like he does. Like some roadside poet wandering about with no real place to go or come from. You meet a guy like this ever so often in life and can only hope you’ll meet again. And you wonder what will become of his music in between. Where it comes from. Where it’s going.
There’s something soulful about Flynn and it carries over to his music, something cutting you can’t help but think it comes from a place close to dark. But then it gets all pretty again. He smiles crookedly. There’s blues in that song. A folk blues ramble, I guess.
That old guitar from the 1934 hums along like some antique harp an old woman strums at a cafeteria in Kansas. Flynn’s music covers lots of ground for me. And so has this wordsmith musician after only one album and a limited time playing. He’s come from the stage of William Shakespeare. It reflects in his lyrics, no doubt.
The Wrote & The Writ came out flying along a sidewalk full of cars and bumps and dark shadows. The one song we wondered if it was even worth trying for. I think it came out as a favorite. That dangling shadow and guitar. The little Scottish jig. The look of where the hell are we and where are we going.
There’s something about the underbelly of Buenos Aires that’s so damn charming. Flynn’s music certainly got us in the mood. And Flynn too. He’s a friendly chap. Smart and full of energy. Humble. I have feeling we’ll meet again. And I also have a feeling Johnny Flynn is on to something that comes from something real. No frizz, no frazzle. Just good, poetic music from the soul. And as long as he’s pickin’ and singin’ I’m happy to listen.