Emmett Tinley

At first inspection, there is little to recommend Emmett Tinley above a legion of morose singer-songwriters clamouring to sob on our shoulders.

Yet Tinley offers more than a neat line in grandiose self pity. He has a distinctive voice, capable of segueing from tattered snarl to splintered falsetto, and, garlanded in fey acoustic guitars, his portentous ballads transcend the indie-moocher ghetto, expressing the blue-collar ennui of a Bruce Springsteen or Will Oldham.

As leader of Wicklow miserabilists The Prayer Boat, Tinley garnered rave notices but suffered pitiful sales through the 1990s.

His new material ploughs the same elegiac furrow. It is unrelentingly sad, shot through with doomed romanticism and enlivened by mannered, languorous pop hooks.

In performance, Tinley emerged as a shy, reluctant frontman. His features obscured by tousled hair, he seemed ready to bolt into the wings at the first disapproving tut from the stalls.

The worst he had to contend with was the occasional listless murmur.

His audience was smitten, glimmering with dreamy smiles and blissed-out gazes. A candlelit rendition of Saved, an old Prayer Boat favourite, even prompted some wistful swaying in the aisles.

When Tinley dedicated a number to Uaneen Fitzsimons, the late No Disco presenter, people hugged each other and stifled tears.

Sloping off stage, Tinley promised to record a debut solo album in the near future. Perhaps success, so long elusive, will finally seek him out. For now, the Prayer Boats' pathos- soaked back catalogue must suffice.