Richard Dawson brings his wonderfully shambling exterior, tales of pineapples and underpants, ghosts of family members and cats to Summerhalls Dissection Room. Rising up from the bed of the River Tyne, a voice that crumbles and soars, that is steeped in age-old balladry and finely chiselled observations of the mundane, Richard Dawson is a skewed troubadour at once charming and abrasive. His shambolically virtuosic guitar-playing stumbles from music hall tunesmithery to spidery swatches of noise colour, swathed in amp static and teetering on the edge of feedback.