Falling under the spell of Seasick Steve

He erupts onto stage with the bass heavy stampede that is “Thunderbird”, thrashing the helluva outta his guitar. An energetic drinking song, its climatic repetition of melodic southern drawl clatters around the Hammersmith Apollo. As the frenzied crescendo rumbles to a finish, Steve turns to us with the warm pride of a rum-woozy shantyman. It’s a contagious smile. He’s all laughter lines and weathered wrinkles that tell stories of a life so different to my own.

Next he airs material from new album Sonic Soul Surfer, released at the end of March. “Right on Time”, a whimsical ditty with a mellow riff, punkier but brooding “Summertime Boy” and rowdy jig “Bring it On” – all performed with playful swagger.

Despite being 73 years old, it seems Steve has only just hit his stride. His fingers are nimble as he rattles through his raucous repertoire, telling anecdotes with sparkling eyes and the sweetest of smiles. “When they play this on the radio” he quips, “I feel like a pop star!”. He basks in his fame but still seems surprised and a little dazzled by it all – despite it being a decade since he went mainstream.

Adorning a baseball cap and a lumberjack shirt, Steve Wold is accompanied by doppelganger, Dan Magnusson, on drums (though Dan’s is a slightly shorter beard but slightly longer hair, and he’s wearing sunglasses rather than a baseball camp to signify his coolness). Strings of tungsten bulbs line the stage, a simple and rustic touch of décor with more than a hint of country barn dance. I half expect a splattering of hay beneath their feet.

Between nearly every track Steve swaps instruments, before slugging from a bottle of wine. From his dented hubcap guitar to a blue 1950s fender to a washboard with strings, it’s an impressive array even if it feels a little contrived at times; a nod to his former life as a “hobo” and a back history that is inherent to his image - and seemingly, to his allure.

Though I fall for the fairytale of this groovy geriatric. In response to a recent review critique of his overuse of special effects, he gives away his so-called “secret” with a smirk. It’s a thimble over a sticking plaster over his thumb, played with vigour– and to stick up a middle finger to the critic.

In typical antiquated style, his new album sales pitch was dragged from days gone by. He lugs a recordplayer onto the stage, and plugs it in with the tongue-in-cheek “this is what they call a record-player and I am going to show you what they do”. A minute is spent with his ear held close to line it up, then he plays a short section of a much loved track, swinging and bopping from side to side like a very merry drunk.

He later showcases the vinyl: “you can’t plug this into your phone!”. It pictures him on a surfboard on his tractor. I like his style. It’s certainly unique, and I am spellbound by his charisma. He’s a raconteur that has the audience hanging off his every word - whether spoken or sung.

And gee, tonight’s fans are super keen. Chants of “Steve-o, Steve-o” fill every silence and rigorous roars drown out the dying hum of every strum. At times it sounds more like we are on the sidelines of a football match. Though from our seats in the circle there was an uncanny number of bald heads glinting back, interspersed by hirsute lookalikes. Steve teases those with their phones aloft “I don’t know why y’all like taking pictures, I always look the same!”.

Frenzied thwaks, psychedelic rock’n’roll, the hum and slide of bluegrass… the show pelts along like a runaway train through the Deep South, With Steve aboard the top, windswept and with a battered instrument in his hand, jamming and jiving and serenading us with his rockabilly ballads. When it slowed to a stop, I was sad the ride had to end.

• Photo by Dan Harris. See the full gallery here.