Ballad for a Plain Man

Jeff Finlin might be one of the finest American troubadours since Bob Dylan. Just ask Bruce Springsteen or director Cameron Crowe. So why is he scraping by on the Front Range, playing gigs on a cracked guitar?

Ain't nothing left to do but walk the streets so dark
And whisper I love you to a moment there inside your heart
Let the trumpets sound, but listen to the morning dew
And fill yourself with what you found,
And be my little sugar blue

After our lunch together, Finlin climbed into his four-year-old Honda CRV and I followed him back to his house. I said a quick hello to Karen, who was busy in the kitchen, and followed Finlin down to the basement, where a beat-up old table held a computer hooked to a stereo, and a keyboard stood against an exposed wall. My recording studio, he said with some pride.

Finlin's 11-year-old son, Aidan, appeared at the bottom of the stairs and asked politely if he could play video games on the computer. Sure, Finlin said. A handsome kid, with hair nearly the shade of Finlin's yellow blazer, Aidan quickly became engrossed in his game. I asked him what kind of music he liked. Without looking up he said, "Ukrainian techno."

"Of course you like Ukrainian techno," Finlin said. "Why wouldn't you like Ukrainian techno?"