Grower - (adj.) Produce of popular culture, often musical in form, which at first appears average, underwhelming, but reveals itself to be a stunning work of melodic motherfucking craftsmanship.
e.g; "At first I thought it sounded like toss, is what, but turns out it's a grower."
(Dictionary De Duke, Oxford, 2003)

The first time I encountered Jesse Malin, he was running around the stage of The Ulster Hall in Belfast with a microphone clenched between his teeth and his fingers in his ears. His band, D Generation, were opening for Green Day on that particular occasion, and they were fantastic.

I never managed to track down any of their albums, although the few songs I did get hold of suggested that the "Live Performance" might be the best place to experience these Noo Yawk punk types, with their Robert Smith-esque follicles and Ramones-esque choruses.

A few years later, The Duchess and I are sitting amongst a much more civilised crowd in The Waterfront Hall, another venue in the city, waiting for Ryan Adams to appear and work his prodigious, enviable magic.

First, though, this bloke appears onstage with a funny nose and dishevelled hair, an acoustic guitar slung around his person. Who the fuck would have guessed this was that self same fella who not four years ago was screaming about the "Helpless" and the "Degenerated" and so on in such a disgruntled manner?

He started playing, though, and it was blindingly obvious. The energy, the passion, the witty banter with the audience, all that shit was still in place even though the electric guitars and the bass and the drums and so on where all some place else.

And the tunes, man. Those tunes were catchy as all hell. Like if the Ebola virus had more to do with G minor and less to do with bleeding out your eyes, nose, arsehole and so on.

During the interval, he popped up in the foyer to sign copies of his debut solo album, The Fine Art Of Self Destruction, and after a brief chat about Harp Lager and Jello Biafra, I made off with a lovely signed copy of said Ryan Adams-Produced masterpiece.

Turns out the acoustic set was something of a one-off for that particular tour, and Malin is actually still very much concerned with the rocking, rolling and what not, but now lends much more pathos, narrative, poetic verve to the lyric-scribbling, and is more comfortable with having (J. Malin) appear underneath the title of the odd piano ballad. That first record bounded back and forth between Alt. Country and Springsteen-style blue collar rock, all grounded with that remarkable, nasal singing voice, reminiscent of Neil Young at times.