An intimate, little Hindu shoe box of a club played host to a larger than life musician and his cult of followers, slightly too large to fit the lid over. I've been one of those people for a long time now, following to see Sam Frankl in his past naive teenage indie band, and in front of two or three people while sitting on a Buddha pagoda in the early hours of the morning. As a mature and flourishing songwriter, he not only managed to perform some promising new songs at the Blag Club, but also dig up some old ones from his past and make them something beyond the abilities of an adolescent Damien Rice wannabe, playing in his basement. Although it's his ability to write and compose that does him the most justice, Sam is not one of those who should stick to doing so for other people. His booming voice, which may struggle at times, remains a natural talent and dramatises his sometimes dark and ambient songs, and was enough to drown out the people talking at the bar. As long as there is a small group of people to lap it up the way his cult do, Sam Frankl's music will never go unappreciated or forgotten. It's about time though that he received a bigger stage and a bigger audience; a whole cupboard to silence, rather than just the shoe box.