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For all his prolific word slinging, Darnielle has become a terrifically engaging singer, channeling his thin, nasal voice with an emotional urgency that belies the impersonality of his narratives. Whether tidying up oldies like "Going to Cleveland" with the help of an offstage cellist or gently rocking out with the help of a bassist, drummer, and producer-guitarist John Vanderslice, Darnielle delivered enough vocal oomph and pretty melody to reach the handful of attendees who hadn't already memorized his lyrics. Recent winners like "International Small Arms Traffic Blues" and "Your Belgian Things" detailed busted love affairs and perpetually fucked small-towners while touching on biohazard suits, Bartles and Jaymes, and the border between Greece and Albania. The performances were as tightly controlled as the set list, as Darnielle fended off requests with prolix intros. When he launched into a between-songs story about getting trapped in Queens and buying a souvenir Mets cup for his beloved, only to lose it in the snow, it was clear that despite the cathartic singsong potential of his blithely determined choruses, the show was mostly about his words—a flurry of left-field biography, invented local color, and random brain-spew, engaging an overstimulated community by dignifying tiny losses and thwarting emptiness. If only all cult artists could get it so right.