Malcolm Holcombe, live somewhere else.

If you’ve ever longed to see an extraordinary, under-heralded singer/songwriter perform in an intimate setting at the peak of his craft — say Townes Van Zandt in 1973 or so — then hopefully you were among the 50-odd people who came to the White Water Tavern last night to see Malcolm Holcombe.

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The North Carolinian held the crowd in his sway, his powerful songs all firmly rooted in the traditions of folk and blues. He played unaccompanied, often wielding his guitar like one would a chainsaw — with deliberate movements, aware of its potential danger. Other times, he cradled the instrument like it was some wounded creature he’d found in the woods and was trying to nurse back to health.

Throughout the performance, he plucked the strings so hard they rang out like a tire iron dropped on the concrete shop floor. It’s amazing that he doesn’t constantly break strings, but perhaps this owes to his considerable chops. It is rare to see such an incredible singer/songwriter who is also a stone badass guitar player. Most just strum their simple chords. Holcombe practically shreds.

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