There is no attempt at all toward glitz and glam on the part of Lightfoot. You get the original, rugged article playing his 12 and 6 string acoustic guitars, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt with only a sparse amount of reflecting sparkles. He sings in his clenched-teeth, deep drone style standing center with no errant moves within an interior setting embellished by polished wood panelling and furniture, Tiffany glass panels, a stairway leading up to a door that nobody uses and some potted palms stashed about among his four support musicians.
Lightfoot is warm, gracious in his acknowledgements from enthusiastic, shouting tablers eager for one of their faves from a prodigious output of at least 400 from the cleffer's impressive song roster. He sings about a dozen numbers, with lyrical content roving around the life and geography he knows best - ships on the Great Lakes, railroads, wide prairies, early morning rain, rough romantic sentimental pieces, hotel rooms and glimpses into his own feelings of love. At the end of an hour, he puts down his guitar and simply walks off with his musicians and that's it.