Willis Earl Beal @ Summerhall, 11 Aug

Willis Earl Beal is a star. A timeless voice and an unnerving stage presence could have seen Beal conquer the mainstream mountain – but in small part due to a controversial personal history, and in large part due to his old-fashioned obstinacy, he’s not scaled those heights. All the better for Nothing Ever Happens Here’s small, worshipful audience on Thursday night.

Summerhall's Dissection Room is set with tables and chairs like an exclusive cabaret bar, and anticipation is eagerly –  forcibly – hushed. After laying a huge, cape-like flag gently across a stool, Beal takes off his shoes and slowly, slowly, performs 15 press-ups. The room is silent. Slowly still, Beal replaces his boots and announces, “A man’s got to put his shoes on one at a time. Otherwise it’s not poignant.” We're not sure if we should laugh. Scathing, over-enunciated house rules follow. “Don’t stand up. Leave if you’re not enjoying it. Do not clap.”

In principle, you could really hate a Willis Earl Beal show. In practice, Beal’s won the room before he’s sung a single note. Using an iPod as a backing band, he begins with Flying So Low from his 2015 record Nocturnes. His voice is enough to knock you to the floor, soaring over a plain, synth background that he could easily do without – and Beal often does, offering up acapella improvisations to Summerhall’s lofty ceilings, lit by a plain, blueish moonlight.

Beal disjoints his set with enigmatic anecdotes – some threatening, some warming, some totally odd. A shrugged “Hey, if you want a KFC, get yourself a KFC” is off-set by “This show is not for you. I can’t give you anything that I can’t give to myself first.” When he's not thinking out loud, the rest of the show's 75 minutes is filled with his extreme physical strength: after extending peaceful, poised limbs to illustrate the record’s softer minutes, Beal smashes his stool and mic-stand to the floor, whipping them with his belt in between punches of song. It’s exhilarating – and (whisper it), a bit frightening too.   

He covers Frank Sinatra with a power that a less obedient audience would have rewarded with a standing ovation, and the show is over. You could hear a pin drop… but a solitary whoop finally breaks the silence. “That’s okay,” says Beal. The room erupts.