Adam Robinson is not very good, and unfortunately for him it’s not as though he’s bad in a charming or entertaining way, like Daniel Johnston or Meatloaf. He can hardly begin his songs on key—often he has to restart them several times, waiting to get help from his friends in the audience. He’s been known to forget entire verses and cover for it poorly, stopping the song to laugh.
There is, at least, laughter. His sensibility is good—you’ve got to give him that. Adam Robinson does not talk for five minutes between his songs about stupid stuff. He does not take the stage barefooted. He does not play boring instrumental interludes on the acoustic guitar (as if he could).
Terribly afraid of coming off like a corny or self-indulgent dude at an open-mic, Adam Robinson starts his songs and ends them efficiently, wringing the neck of each one for maximum pleasure. He bides his time, waiting for someone to heckle, “Fuck shit up,” and then he slams it into overdrive with a Hüsker Dü cover, or the Boss.
That’s when you might say that Adam Robinson has pizzazz. Vim. And you’d be right, most of the time. If only he could sing, or play guitar, or dance, or something, he’d be motherfucking Elton John.