There is not much competition in the alt.country hunk stakes, which may account for how Smog (real name Bill Callahan) has managed to date both Joanna Newsom, his current squeeze, and Chan Marshall, alias Cat Power. Of course, the tight-jeaned Chicago native is not without his charms, but he is a notorious misanthrope, with 12 albums of dark musings on brambles, bullets and bathyspheres under his cowboy belt. Perhaps that is the appeal.

Throughout tonight's show, Smog maintains the stern yet smooth expression of a Hollywood cop issuing a speeding ticket. From time to time he tenses up in dread of yet more feedback surging from his guitar. It seems the sound engineers have taken the night off, leaving Smog in a venue that has already failed him simply by being too big and impersonal.

While Smog's rich, oaken baritone has no problem carrying across the hangar-like room, you feel the need for rugs and a campfire to really lose yourself in it. This is the problem with the vogue for all things country and folk - as demand grows, intimate musicians are booked by ever bigger venues, with something getting lost along the way.

Tonight Smog gets through much of his new album, A River Ain't Too Much to Love. Like the watery imagery that runs through them, the songs swell and ebb, sometimes surging around a whirlpool of intense strumming and drumming, or a lyric about gambling men and rape. Rock Bottom Riser, a love song to Smog's family, is a particular winner, seemingly revealing a new-found happiness in the man. But it's unwise to read too much autobiography into these unreliable narratives.

Later he raises enormous cheers by playing old favourites Blood Red Bird, Justice Aversion, Our Anniversary and Held. But the venue and his tight-lipped demeanour make us feel as if we were on the wrong side of Smog's smokescreen.