David Dondero

The adjective singer-songwriter gets adhered willy-nilly to all kinds of winsome whiners, but I’m willing to place money on Dondero’s oeuvre enduring beyond the "indie rock” years. Fans of Conor Oberst would lose their shit over the back catalogue of the guy he stole his entire shtick from; happily for us, David Dondero seems to be surviving his ten-year-plus vocation as an itinerant wanderer and singer of songs, and he’s only getting better. The lyrics toy with the expectations that he’s either homeless or a bit of a bumpkin (he believes in "music, art and literacy”) and certainly he’s used to being underestimated; his downtrodden perspective is part of the appeal. Recorded on the still-smoking recording equipment of Austin’s Sweatbox Studios after it was rescued from a fire, urgency permeates every song, even if the opening track is a little overworked. His storytelling powers are at their height, however, on "Double Murder Ballad Suicide,” a modern-day classic set in a mythic San Francisco that doesn’t hit a false note. Carry on, bard.