The first arrival of a true American singer songwriter.

Michael Miller cuts a fragile figure, in keeping with the setting. An overcast March afternoon on Hampstead Heath, the tall, pale figure blends gently into the ashen skyline, a journeyman image befitting his personality and, above all, his music. Dressed in the clothes of a working man, he is the epitome of the American songwriter in the classic sense.

Gaunt, weathered features and eyes which say more than any individual could ever wish to discover, give clues to the fragility of this man. His words speak nothing but hope and kindness, his soft, soft voice tenderly reinforcing every sound it makes. The music is a silent rollercoaster, laced with wit and emotion, bouncing between serenity and distraction. Miller’s beautiful album When We Come To is as yet unreleased in the UK, in fact there are no concrete plans for an imminent arrival. You get the feeling though, that Michael has greater plans than he divulges.

Hailing from Seal Beach, CA, the eternally humble Miller is a man of the earth. ‘I just love being by the sea,’ he confesses in his trademark syrupy whisper. The small coastal town on the outskirts of Los Angeles with its sandy shoreline and quaint pier is an idyllic and inspiring place, seeping with tranquillity and perhaps taming the demons Miller chooses to unleash only in music. Quiet and easy-paced, like the man who finds his peace there, Seal Beach is a haven from the metropolis towering just a few short miles away, an oasis of calm in a desert of bustle. Michael certainly thinks so, to the point where he confesses ‘Wherever I am in the world, I love knowing that I can go home.’ You can see his point.

Critical acclaim for his work has been abundant on home soil. Beautifully eloquent reviews have captured the delicate and finely balanced essence of Miller’s music, which in effect is contradiction put to music. With his band alongside him, The Michael Miller Crusade is a popular and hardworking outfit, gigging constantly. For now though, Michael Miller is in Britain. Largely unannounced and represented only by himself, this is a whole new game.

I finally ran into the elusive man on a Monday night in a chip shop in Southampton, rucksacks in tow, bitterly cold. After dragging him into a pub to warm, I soon realised the perfectly balanced elements of an artist. Refusing to drink before an appearance to keep his head clear enough to deliver direct and emotional statements is like a patient going into an operating theatre awake, just to make sure the pain being administered is as excruciating as expected. Caressing a bottle of water, the warmth of Miller’s personality hit immediately, treating these new faces like old friends. Amiable and open to talk about anything, Michael Miller is a perfect gentleman.

It transpires that aside from the music, Michael sustains himself on a variety of small ventures, the most surprising being a line of greetings cards. Simplistically illustrated and hugely amusing, they are a direct contrast to his intricate and serious songs. An outlet for another part of this multi-layered personality perhaps? The fact he devotes more time to the music tells of his hidden self-belief. Never vocally evident, it is demonstrated further by his sober confidence to stand up and pour out his deepest emotions in a cold, dark room of strangers, with mere acoustic strumming as his only protection.

To watch him on stage is like watching your own offspring, providing a sense of overwhelming concern and helplessness. Unannounced and alone, an eerie emptiness adds to the heartfelt performance, strikingly emphasizing the enchanting nature of his songs. The stage, empty of equipment and barely lit, suddenly seems enormous and as Michael plays from the pit of his heartit does begin to get too much. As the lyrics become more desperate and longing, the pain tears through the audience to their very souls. It is all too obvious we are watching a man laying his soul naked for judgement.

Miller is obviously looking for this effect, omitting more upbeat songs from his collection and sticking to those best heightened by the scarcity of accompiniment. Even so, it is still a surprie at the end of a show to see him step back down to the ground level and effortlessly bring his head back to normality. There are times as he plays, you honestly feel he will burst into tears at any second, so emotional is the performance. It is hardly surprising then that Michael Miller has been compared to Elliot Smith.

Similar to Smith, Miller can feel the pain of a multitude of souls, perhaps the world, although unlike Smith, Miller can channel this effect, never allowing it to consume him in a suicidal wave of grief. Perhaps this is due to the multiple aspects of his personality - the warmth, the humour, the come day- go day approach, but to look deep into his eyes shows a weathered contentment. You sense Miller has seen and felt a multitude of hurt, but has experienced enough good to keep it in perspective.

 

This worldy serenity makes it hard to judge his age. Not wishing to ask, guessing is near impossible. One minute he looks twenty-five, the next fifty-five. Boyish humour and scattiness sit alongside experience and wisdom in improbable harmony, which is all part of the charm. Take any of the great American journeyman songwriters- Dylan, Young and their ilk and Michael Miller fits the mould. An understanding surpassing the necessary with enough creativity to continue progressing. His influences stick to such tradition too. The sounds are undeniably American, although heavily involved are George Harrison in melody and arrangement, shades of an array of greats in quality of vocal delivery and even quiet Cobain musings combine to make a unique melodic product.

Through it all though, the overriding image of warm, tranquil serenity is clear, softening, although far from sterilising the grief Michael’s lyrics can somehow purvey. After the Southampton appearance, Michael accepts an invitation to crash at mine. On the late train home he drifts off, still jetlagged from arrival two days previously.

It is a touching thing to see a heartfelt singer on an exposed human level, as all too often they can assume the stance of being misunderstood, which is where the common depression sets in. Michael adopts none of this, addressing while seemingly oblivious to an audience, yet ready to greet onlookers immediately after a performance. It’s hard. How do you describe a normal man when he publicly displays such extra depths?

For the time being, that remains a mystery, which is probably a good thing for his image as an artist. Clarity though, arrives in the form of talent. Miller is a quality performer and a quality songwriter. He has a quality album in his hands. But the trick will come in attempting to break into the UK without assistance. He could do it. The current trend for all things acoustic, with Damien Rice flavour of the month and Gary Jules exhibiting a similar approach to Miller himself, means all it will take is a lucky break. Michael would have you believe he is unaware of it all, although his work ethic says otherwise. Already he is preparing a return trip to follow up his initial good reception on these shores.

Which is where we left him. The 12 Bar Club, London, late on a Tuesday evening. A perfect venue for Michael and he duly played a perfect gig to a sizeable crowd. We parted company that night, Michael heading off down the road, guitar case in hand, the long hair pushed backwards by the London breeze. Even in the city hubbub there is an infectious countryside tranquillity about Miller, which is never lost to an onlooker. Next stop Nepal and India, guitar in tow, where he has gone to gain inspiration and in his own words ‘try to survive.’ A philosophical shrug and he heads for the next adventure, safe in the knowledge Seal Beach, California is waiting for him.

~A Swann
The Void