"So, Robyn, is this your record?”

The middle-aged customer in the well-cut suit could conceivably be a councillor from the near-by City Hall. He’s just been handed his change and has, absent-mindedly, picked up a four track CD that has been sitting beside the till. He holds the case as if he’s worried about leaving fingerprints, and scans through the track-listing on the rear sleeve, desperately looking for something he recognises.
“Am I going to like any of these?” he wonders.
The guy behind the counter laughs out loud.
“How the fuck do I know,” he says, before dropping a few verbal gears. “You’re a big Billy Ray Cyrus and Garth Brooks fan, aren’t ye?”
The man nods hopefully.
“Then you’ll fucking love it, boy.”
The suit smiles a thank you and turns to leave.
“Here,” grins the guy behind the counter. “That’ll be four quid.”
Allow us to introduce you to Robyn G. Shiels – boy of the north country, recovering noise-monger, splendid songwriter, confectionist – as he serves the great and the good from his city centre newsagents. We’re here to talk about 17 Cigarette Burns, the wonderful E.P causing such a fuss amongst his regulars, but it’s a tough ask. It’s late night shopping time and business is brisk. We’ve no sooner landed on a topic than a packet of Marlboro Lights, or tin of Diet Coke and a Snickers, or a copy of Men Only looms into view to throw us back up in the air. If finding the space to hold a conversation is this tricky, one wonders how difficult it is to write songs.
“It’s a pain in the arse, but what can you do?” says Robyn. “There’s no point gurning, you’ve just to get on with it. Like that boy from Lambchop (Kurt Wagner), he was laying floors, wasn’t he? When it came to making music, he built it all up over ten years – fitted it in during his holidays. It keeps it all fresh. I mean he was restricted but he made the most of it. “
Wagner also claims that, since he has finally been able to give up the day job, he feels like he has lost a degree of artistic independence. It’s a point, though, he probably shouldn’t make if he’s ever in Robyn’s company.
“What?” he asks, “Is he some kind of fucking lunatic? He wants to be working here some day when eight spides try to lift the fucking till.”
Not that it’s all bad. Having access to a stereo and a relentless flow of people has made the job of, as Robyn would have it, “spreading the gospel”, all that easier of late. Patrons entering with the intention of filling in a lottery ticket or picking up the 6th Tele have been won over by the sheer melodic quality of 17 Cigarette Burns and found themselves leaving with something they didn’t expect.
“I’m not an ego-maniac,” he protests. “It’s not like I play it constantly. But wee Dan (Todd) who helped me record the songs would bring me down CDs anytime I need a few and I’d go through them here just to check that the track-listing is okay. I have to say, as I was playing them, folk would come in and go: ‘Who’s that there?’ And I’d say: ‘It’s me, amn’t I great?’ So, you’d end up punting half them on from here.”
There shouldn’t be much of a problem finding homes for the rest. Robyn has for over a decade now gone about quietly and not so quietly honing his craft. In that time he has shared bills with the lauded likes of Will Oldham, Van Morrison and Cat Power, while also flying the flag for North Antrim metal with Michael McKeegan of Therapy? during a stint as The Sons Of Massey. But even the briefest exposure to the gorgeously dishevelled ‘Two Nights In June’ would be enough to convince that we’re dealing here with someone finally finding their own voice.
And someone, too, who isn’t afraid to mix things up for the benefit of his craft.
The next chapter in Robyn’s tale will see him kick away the bar stool with the help of maybe the best backing band in Belfast.
“I’m going to do a few shows with Desert Hearts behind me,” he reveals. “That’ll be something to see: two obnoxious fuckers on the same stage at the same time. Wee Charlie (Mooney) is a lot like myself; he likes a wee drink and loves listening to records. He’s like a younger brother. It’d just be a bit more interesting than boring Robbie, pished – arseing up his own songs and threatening the audience.”
And with little likelihood, either, of being short-changed. Chi-ching.

17 Cigarette Burns is available at Backbeat Record, Greta Victoria St, Belfast. [email protected]