Jim White, Bush Hall, London

It's no secret that Jim White is a man of many faces.

It's no secret that Jim White is a man of many faces. Now in his 40s, his younger years saw him ranging between jobs like one of the rootless men in his story-songs of American outsider-dom. The last time the southern Californian, signed to David Byrne's Luaka Bop label, brought his languid, groove-driven country-blues to London, his anecdotes - and he talks a good one - hinged on claims to be an "international crime-fighting superhero superstar". Tonight, playing solo beneath the cherubs and chandeliers at Bush Hall, a rather plush west London venue, he's like your angelic drinking buddy, winningly sincere and quick with the opening gambit that you can't hope to avoid on 4 November 2004. "I'm not a Christian," he assures us: "and I didn't vote for George Bush."

From there, the extent to which White has found his vocation soon becomes obvious. His songs, arrangements and chit-chat roam as much as he used to, but he makes them look like a happy accident, multi-tasking on guitars, vocal loops, samplers and other musical tools with deftness charm and ease. He's like a rock'n'roll mechanic in his solution to tonight's start-of-show technical glitches, exhorting the soundman to just crank everything up to 10. "I ain't too subtle, but that's OK," he deadpans: "I'm from America."

White's America is one viewed in a state of wry rumination from trailer parks, mobile homes and the like, where big issues, ranging from girls to God (in that order), are pontificated on past closing time. "It's late at night and this motel room's drunk" is a typical starting point, on the lovely small-hours lament of "That Girl from Brownsville, Texas", the sorry tale of some poor soul finally offering himself up to Jesus - on the condition that the big man helps to "plant them seeds of love with that girl...".

It's fertile territory for White, and he talks at one point tonight of mining the "wayward spots in town", talking to people and prizing "perversions of language". His music is deceptively perverse too, simple at first glance but multi-layered beneath. One obscure track tonight sets his talk-sing vocals to oddball beats in a manner not unlike "Walk on the Wild Side" reworked by Vanilla Ice. On the set's opener, "Borrowed Wings", downhome guitars coil around slumped grooves and over lyrics that offer a sure-sighted approximation of errant youth. "We was young, we was wild, and we sure had our fun," White drawls, before the pay-off: "till the sheriff caught up with us."

Among the zingers, there are moments of real sweetness. White's sing-speak vocals lend "Bluebird" - a song about a guy from the wrong side of the tracks struggling to do good - great warmth and clarity, particularly on the lyric, "Me, I found someone to love more than the rain". Later, he thanks people for coming to see him because they're helping pay for his daughter's schooling. Could he be easier to warm to? He should stick with this face, at any rate: it's one he wears very well.