Supposing someone who had never set foot in a folk club wanted to give the experience a try-they could do a lot worse than to spend an evening in the company of Iain Macintosh.
This seasoned performer is much too adventurously catholic in his outlook to be confined to the folk ghetto (whose barriers are in any case being broken down). The man sings good songs. And good songs with something to say can be borrowed as readlily from the l ate and achingly missed Harry Chapin, or from Dory Previn or Bob Zentz, as from the traditional repertoire.
What Iain MacKintosh looks for in the material he makes so eloquently his own, is downright poetic worth. Then he wraps the chosen statement in silky, bitter-sweet banjo cadences and rolls around it his distinctive bright-topped baritone.
There's a deadly gentleness, a sonorous sincerity about his way of ticking society off, but there's not a pompous bone in the body of the man who takes his songs where he finds them, a man who can amuse, sing a love song, propagandise and speak also for himself. A man, in short, who ought to be listened to by people whose prejudices about the genre he might well prick.
Donny O'Rourke, Glasgow Herald