Ray LaMontagne: Born under a bad sign

Ray LaMontagne finds life a struggle. Indeed, so shy is the US singer-songwriter that he sometimes performs in total darkness. But he'd better get used to the attention: his debut album, 'Trouble', has sold 400,000 copies by word of mouth and he's about to tour the UK with David Gray. Nick Duerden asks him, very gently, how he's going to cope...

"I'm fine," he claims. "Really."

Over the past 12 months, this man's music has caused critics to swoon in a manner most unbecoming of critics. He has been proclaimed the new Bob Dylan, a future legendary American singer-songwriter whose raw voice can both pin you to the wall and bring tears to your eyes. When, in the title track of his debut album Trouble, he roars a merciful, "I've been saaaaved by a woman", you want to personally thank the woman in question. On stage, LaMontagne is crippled by a shyness that often necessitates him to perform in complete darkness, but he is astonishing all the same, evincing a troubadour folk spirit that recalls his (also heavily bearded) 1970s forefathers. Trouble was originally released a couple of years ago on a small independent label, and went on to sell 400,000 copies across the world on word-of-mouth alone (35,000 of which were here in the UK). The record has now been picked up by 14th Floor Recordings, the British label that transformed other word-of-mouth sensations David Gray and Damien Rice into million sellers (indeed, from tomorrow, LaMontagne is supporting Gray on his UK tour). It is re-released here this month, and Christian Tattersfield, 14th Floor's MD, is convinced that LaMontagne's appeal could soon be universal.

"The moment I first heard the record, I knew it was a classic," Tattersfield says. "And everybody I've since played it to feels similar. I really don't see why anyone who has bought a Jack Johnson record or Damien Rice's O wouldn't adore this as well, because it really is something special. And that's how we aim to market it, strategically, to lovers of good music - of great music."

The singer arrives on these shores later this month to tour in support of the album. The prospect fills him with a deep dread.

"I guess it doesn't excite me much, no," he says in a voice that my tape recorder will strain, with all its Duracell-powered strength, to pick up. "I mean, I do live to play shows, but so far from home? And then there is the, you know, all the [promotion]... well, I'd really rather not. I'm a private person, I don't enjoy the meet and greets." After a pause that stretches like elastic, he says: "Of course, I do my best to deliver what's needed, but it's not where I'm at my most fulfilled. If I had my way, I'd be home working in my barn."

Until recently, he lived on a patch of land in the middle of nowhere with the wife and two children he refuses to discuss, a place without running water or electricity. There, he built his own house from scratch. Now, he has moved slightly closer to civilisation (about three hours' drive from Portland, and, no, he won't divulge the town's name), where he has purchased an old shack that he will have to rebuild, "from the inside out. I'm looking forward to it." A rare smile flashes across his face. "I'm a pretty decent carpenter."

He is far happier with wood, he suggests, than he is with people. Perched forward on the plump sofa, making it look as hard and unyielding as a church pew, he says in the tiniest whisper: "My social interaction is very, very limited. I'm not a whole lot good at making friends or keeping them. I guess I'm just somebody who likes my own company."

LaMontagne's background is perfect for one who would go on to sing what is, ostensibly, a modern-day version of the blues. Born in New Hampshire 33 years ago, he was one of six children. His violent father didn't hang around for long, while his mother, dirt poor but resourceful, could never quite settle, the extended clan flitting continually from one place to another, rarely resting for more than a few months at a time. They resided in the backyards of houses belonging to family friends, in cars and tents, a cinderblock shell on a Tennessee horse ranch, and even a New Hampshire chicken coop. Intermittently, new father figures would drift in, but none lasted.

"There were some, yes," he says, "but none of them... they just... well, let's say that a lot of the people my mom met didn't really know what they were doing. She'd think they were pretty decent guys, but then - then we moved on again. It was a difficult time, but we all of us pulled through pretty much - with a few exceptions."

He won't, of course, detail those exceptions - he barely keeps in touch with his step-siblings these days - but he will confirm that school for the perennial new boy was the bane of his young life.

"Oh, I didn't like school at all. I didn't engage. I was a misfit, an oddball, always getting into fights. It wasn't pleasant."

At 17, like his mother before him, LaMontagne began to drift across the States, helplessly drawn to a nomadic lifestyle of few roots and no ties. He did various part-time jobs, he dabbled in carpentry, and eventually settled in New Hampshire where he worked for several years in a shoe factory. Under what circumstances he met his wife, and when, we will never know, at least if the singer himself has anything to do with it. There are few clues on his album, and aside from the jubilant hosanna of the song "Trouble", the tracks named after women ("Hannah" and "Jolene") hardly qualify as love songs. The former, he tells me now, is something he will never play again. (Apparently the line "I'll lay down this bottle of wine if you'll just be kind to me" is too painful to re-live), while the latter is more about despair than anything else ("Cocaine flame in my bloodstream," he yowls, "I still don't know what love means".)

It was while working at the shoe factory that he had what has since been described as his "epiphany". One morning, he awoke to his clock radio playing a song called "Tree Top Flyer" by Stephen Stills. It stopped him in his tracks: "I just sat up in bed and listened. Something about that song hit me. I did not go to work that day; I went to the record store and sought out that album [Stills Alone]. I listened to it, and was transformed."

By 1999, he was writing and recording his own music, sending demo tapes out to local venues in order to secure gigs. These would prove mostly wretched experiences, blighted by "poor lighting and terrible sound, every night like Russian roulette; I hated it." But he also knew he had to do it. Music was by now in his blood.

In 2003, he landed himself a small record deal. Trouble was released the following year and, cautiously buoyed by comparatively healthy sales, he dared to give up the day job, convinced he could finally afford to do so. What passes for much of the man's conversational patter is taken up with musings on money. He didn't used to have much of it; now, after almost half-a-million album sales, he does.

"I've been in the position many times in my life where I either filled my fuel tank with gas or my belly with food," he says, "and so to suddenly be able to afford to live - well, that's pretty special. I'm grateful for it. I know many people who still have to make those kinds of decision every day, throughout their whole entire lives. It makes me sad to even think about it; I don't know how they do it."

While he quietly cherishes the fact that his music has been embraced, in some cases fanatically, on both sides of the Atlantic, Ray LaMontagne isn't a fan of his own work. He could never bring himself to listen to his album, while, live, there are a batch of songs he now refuses to play because, "they've outstayed their welcome."

Which means, presumably, that he sends many fans away from his concerts disappointed? He frowns, and the bandana slips an inch eyewards. "I hope not, no. I think I've got to the stage where people... people sort of know what to expect from me. Shows can be difficult things for me. If I'm not relaxed on stage, I'm tense, and if I'm tense, it really isn't good - for anyone."

Slowly, and with much pain written upon his face, he endeavours to explain. If he is not feeling in the mood to perform - and this can strike him 10 minutes before stage time - he will do whatever he can to separate himself from the audience (hence his occasional habit of performing in darkness). He deflects any sign of exuberant fan worship by turning his back on them, and woe betide anyone fool enough to start taking photographs.

"We all have our breaking points, don't we?" he reasons. "And I have mine. I don't like having my picture taken, and I will get aggressive about it if I have to. See, I don't crave to be the centre of attention. Some people do. They love being social, they love going to parties and such, but I'm not one of those people. This is why all of this has been such a challenge for me, and I am trying to come to terms with it, but I'm still easily thrown off."

In America later this summer, his second album Til The Sun Turns Black will be released (it will arrive here in 2007). He says that he is both proud of it and incapable of ever listening to it again. The distinct probability that it will bring him even greater success is something that he won't consider, but he does talk, obliquely, about the need to maintain dignity, spirituality ("whatever that means") and happiness in amid all of this.

So he is happy, then?

Out of nowhere comes eye contact, but it's accusatory. "That," he begins, "is a difficult question, and not a particularly fair one." He is silent for two full minutes, the silence filling the room like air in a balloon. Eventually, he speaks. "I don't know how to answer that, but I guess it's true to say that I have trouble achieving balance in my life."

His last sentence is a pleading one.

"We'll leave it at that, shall we?"

'Trouble' is available on 14th Floor Recordings now. For more information on his summer shows, visit www.RayLaMontagne.com