Nicholas Doubleyou performs with the kind of fervent urgency that can make you feel unsettled, like he may be on the verge of tears, or on the verge of something ingenius, so you sit around and wait long enough to find out. Perhaps it's both, it's his cries of love, twisting the ends of his words upward and onward to the sound of a rickety old guitar. We'd place him in the box of 'experimental folk' but even that seems silly. This is an experiment in something, but maybe it's not folk, maybe it's something bigger than that. A boy, alone, singing without all the bells and whistles modern day folk now requires. Just himself and a few earnest words he can manage to get out. And once they're out, they're there for good. The war paint on his face is needed more for his own personal ghosts, than the armies of children that dance around the park, hanging from jungle gyms and flying down slides. There is a good chance that his painted face is a kin to the playground kids, an experiment in play.