On the face of things, Francis Vendetti has a lot going for him. He’s a slim, well-dressed, good-looking folk musician, who lives in a particularly picturesque part of Colorado. Yet he’s been cursed to live in the shadow of a famous relative: his uncle Johnson was a hugely successful Dylan-style troubadour. From the very opening shot of a gig poster on a redwood trunk, bearing the legend ‘Nephew Of Johnson Vendetti’, his future path seems set. Even the pause menu is an image of one of Johnson’s albums on vinyl (complete with detailed sleeve notes). Sean Lennon and James McCartney, look away now.
Yet, after you are invited to press the X button to strum brief snippets of two mournful folk ballads, Vendetti trots over to a lookout and begins to play a very different tune, shredding on his guitar in a manner more akin to rocker Steve Vai. That’s enough to attract the attention of Violetta – an achingly cool young woman sporting a purple bubble jacket, matching hi-tops and what looks like a boiler suit. If she’s to be the archetypical muse in this story, her droll delivery would suggest her role is more sarky pixie dream girl. “I find lost young men are in the business of irrational and dangerous decisions,” she deadpans, as she encourages Vendetti to change his stars.
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