I doubt there are few among us who were spared the "When I was your age..." rant when we were growing up. Whether it was elaborate tales about walking to and from school each day in the snow (up hill both ways, no less) or wearing the same pair of tattered shoes for years on end, even after the laces gave way and the leather was worn to a fine dust, elders were always eager to impart their tales of hardship to us -- both real and imagined.

With that in mind, I shudder to envision the sort of adventures Dylan Thomas will recount when he's old and grey, because at the tender age of 25, the Vancouver musician is already a fine storyteller.

Hand half the singer-songwriters in this town a jean jacket and a smattering of lyrics about California sunsets and burning desire, and chances are that someone might come up with a hit or two. But probably none that captures the spellbinding authenticity of Thomas's sentimental chord-wrangling.

With tales of heartache and strife spun throughout his melodic, countrified rock, the young troubadour carries himself like a man with a lifetime of tribulation under his belt. Even my astute grandfather, a seasoned airline captain and survivor of the great Dugald Train Disaster of '47 (or so he likes to boast every Christmas dinner after having his way with a bottle of Drambuie) -- even he might pause before calling Thomas's bluff.

Other kids are clamouring to find their place in the faux-country resurgence that's sweeping Vancouver hipster circles faster than the urge to sling back a can of PBR on Friday night, but Thomas has emerged as somewhat of a natural who avoids the contrived posturing of some his East Van contemporaries. A scene veteran with his roots in punk, he's a new favourite amongst those who covet The Band's Music From Big Pink, Townes Van Zandt's Live and Obscure and Neil Young's After The Gold Rush. And it is the persona of ol' Shakey himself that is recalled in Thomas's latest number, "Rainbows and Arrows," which paints a sombre picture of a man who's spent his life shuffling between nondescript bus stations, and the romantic woes that pursue him.

"I asked her where she come from / She said she didn't know / She said it didn't matter / Same anywhere you go, same anywhere you go...", he sings, falling effortlessly in line with the musical pioneers in his parents' record collection.

Fast forward 50 years and it's anyone's guess the depth of emotion Thomas might eventually evoke with his material. One thing is certain -- he'll have no problem captivating audiences with wildly embellished tales from Vancouver's early 21st century musical stew. "I remember when we had to dodge darts at the Cobalt. And not just ordinary darts, either. They were hollow-tipped back in those days. You know, I still blame Joey Shithead for this pesky limp...."

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