In a dimly lit room glowing with candles, 63-year-old Leo Kottke walked unassumingly onto the curtained stage and without saying a word, stood in front of the seated audience and began to rapidly pick and strum his six-string. His fingerpicking filled the entire room as if he had two or three guitarists supporting him.

After two songs, Kottke began his third but stopped, groaned and, with a sly grin, said, “You write this stuff and then you can’t play it. Why do I do that to myself?” The audience laughed at him, clearly apathetic about the mistake. He appeared in fine form, his fingers moved just as agilely as they did when he began his career in 1969.

Kottke spoke to the audience, embarking on bemusing but befuddling monologues. In the first, he explained how he and his young friends used to sneak into theaters to watch movies. There was always a guitarist in the theater, he went on, who would play a moody tune whenever the vampire or the “girl in a sombrero with a tear in her eye” walked into the scene. Kottke wanted to evoke the same emotions.

Photo: Curtis Stiles

The Low Anthem, comprised of Ben Miller, Jeff Prystowsky and Jocie Adams came onstage at the Bowery Ballroom looking a little surprised. Fresh off a two-show gig at the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival, they might have not expected their CD release show to generate a large audience. Miller even brought his leftover dumplings as an enticing snack to draw people closer to the stage but fortunately, the room was full of fans ready and willing to stand near (and far) for the performance.

Photo: schedivypictures.com

There is nothing quite like the freedom of creative expression behind an independent artist. For singer/songwriter Alfonso Velez, headlining a Memorial Day show at Mercury Lounge was just the beginning. Dressed in all white for the occasion with war paint on his cheeks, Velez depicted the perfect image of true Americana folk, despite his Mexican-Cuban heritage.

“Sorry folks, I’m a bit nervous tonight,” he admitted humbly as the room quieted. Opening solo with “The Need to Know,” a dark and instantaneous attention grabber, it was obvious he needed no introduction. “Welcome to my party, the devil’s in your town,” he crooned. Velez is as timeless as some of his biggest influences—a culmination of Robert Johnson’s King of the Delta Blues, Nina Simone’s Ain’t Got No/I Got Life and Chet Baker’s My Funny Valentine.

Photo: Drea Lee

True greatness tends to go unrecognized until long after its prime. For Sixto Diaz Rodriguez, a Hispanic singer/songwriter born-and-bred in Detroit, a gig at Bowery Ballroom and first-ever American tour would bear all the usual qualities of a comeback success—an unrecognized living legend and still-burning flame. The only difference however, between Rodriguez and that of say, the Rolling Stones, is that his music never made it to the mainstream.

Born in 1942 as the sixth child of Mexican immigrant parents, “Sixto” (meaning the Sixth Prince) Rodriguez wrote politically aware songs for young people. Although it should have been an ideal and welcoming period for his psychedelia and social commentary, Rodriguez’s work remained in the shadows through the ‘80s and ‘90s, never getting the attention it deserved.