Getting ill on the road: it’s every musician’s nightmare. For a one-man, high-octane show such as Jason Ringenberg’s, it’s a potential disaster – one that seems to be chasing the Tennessean country-rock legend around as he embarks on his first UK dates for more than two years.

With the flu – “the kind that kills people” – doing its best to lay him low and turn that distinctive voice into a croak, Jason has come closer than he’s ever been to cancelling shows. But amazingly he’s here tonight, upstairs at The Prince Albert in Brighton, a small pub next to the train station, and rocking up a storm – albeit at slightly less than gale force.

A back injury – sustained while lifting a suitcase – means that, unusually, no boot marks are left in the stage. And his voice is a little hoarse on the high notes, though this doesn’t seem to temper his choice of songs in any way, nor dampen his spirit. The twinkle in his eye and the grin on his face are still there.

When you consider that even his clothes are conspiring against him – while getting ready, he spills water over his trousers and has to go on stage wearing the denim dungarees from his afternoon Farmer Jason kids’ show – it’s a remarkable performance. Set opener Life Of The Party might have been a mission statement.

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Earlier this year, Tara and I were in a Nashville bar, Robert’s Western World, sipping cokes and watching the resident covers act. We’d only been sat down for 30 seconds when a voice came from the stage: “Who’s your favourite country singer?” All eyes in the room turned to us. It was obviously the newcomers’ turn to request a song.

“Jason and the Scorchers?” asked Tara, hopefully. “Sorry, who?” came the reply. The name was repeated for clarity but it didn’t do any good – the guy on stage who prided himself on being able to play anything from country’s vast and rich catalogue of classics was stumped. To save us further embarrassment, a voice from the bar requested some Johnny Cash and everything was suddenly back on track.

With hindsight, as well as sticking a couple of dollars in the tip jar on the way out, I should’ve included a note answering that “Who?”, if only for the sake of the next weary traveller that stopped by hoping to catch, say, Harvest Moon or Shop It Around. In fact, I should’ve nipped over the road to Ernest Tubb’s and returned with a copy of the freshly reissued Still Standing CD. Next time, I’ll come prepared.

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