In recent years, the image of the singersongwriter has undergone a regrettable shift . The unwelcome spectre of James Blunt hovers around anyone who currently arrives bearing an acoustic guitar and a major record deal. As he walks on stage, Scott Matthews is in possession of both, but it swiftly becomes apparent that a profi le-raising guest appearance on Parkinson is unlikely to come his way in the near future. For every drivetime-friendly tune - and there are plenty - there's a surprising burst of noise. "This hasn't got a title yet, so you can help us out once you've heard it," mutters Matthews, before mimicking the voice of a nonplussed audience member. "'You should call that one Shit.'" It gets a laugh, but here's a ring of truth about it. Shit turns out to be a lengthy instrumental number, so heavy on the distorted guitar that it occasionally shades into Sonic Youth territory. The crowd, heavy on cuddling couples, do indeed look a bit nonplussed at its conclusion. His voice, throaty and slurred, most obviously recalls John Martyn. And, like Martyn, the more delicate and ethereal aspects of his oeuvre - The Wasp and the Jar and the hushed Myself Again among them - seem to chafe against his personality. Between songs , Matthews doesn't seem like a terribly ethereal and delicate kind of guy. He ends the show alone on stage, shaking his guitar in front of an amplifier, coaxing out wailing feedback. Not for the first time, the audience look a bit confused.

· At the Spring & Airbrake on Wednesday (02890 326968). Then touring