The rude chatter and shrill laughter bellowing from the nearby table of drinking women is already upsetting me by the time Barry Ingle reaches the third song in his set, which he quietly introduces as "Tornadoes." The song is beautiful, and I'm trying to remain undistracted within the fluid, insular space he is creating.

I want to figure out what Ingle is getting at lyrically, because he is obviously a strong writer. His imagery moves quickly at times, and his phrasing is quirky with the random off-placement of words and vocal noises that are organic and specific to Ingle's unique craft.

There are 11 people seated up at the front of the Old Town Alehouse in Ballard, and six people in back. Ingle is playing on the bar's piano, which is set up against a wall on the side of the tiny stage, so he is unable to face us. He confesses that this makes him uncomfortable, but if he is genuinely uneasy, it doesn't bleed into his performance.

He introduces the first song as "Fishing Net." The piano recalls the plinking minimalism of Joni Mitchell's "River," while Ingle's smooth, chirping voice makes me think of John Denver or James Taylor. "And baby shine, put your lips to mine," Ingle sings. "I'm not afraid of your charity. Don't you know you saved me?" It's a sad love song written by someone who has lost faith--perhaps in love itself, or at least in some lover. Ingle's delivery is assured but tender, well attended and transporting. "I could never go back to him," he sings. "Cried on the plane."

The second song, "Virginia," is about a woman whose own mother takes her baby from her. The accompanying piano, which is bluesier, more ragtime or vaudevillian than the rest of his material, provides an unpredictably rollicking backdrop to the resigned, perhaps embittered lyrics: "Thank you for whipping me into this shape you think I'm in, but you'll never get this chance again." Ingle's voice breaks, quavering at the upper end of his range, and I think of Will Oldham.

The only low point in Ingle's six-song set is his cover of Dolly Parton's "Jolene"--a song in which a woman, at her wit's end, pleads with a seductress named Jolene to leave her man alone, knowing full well that Jolene can have whomever she chooses. I appreciate hearing the song performed by a man with lyrics recontextualized, but Ingle's delivery is too restrained to fill the song with the desperation it needs. This speaks to the general tone and mood of Ingle's entire set: quiet, self-contained, wrought with emotion and pain perhaps, but never dramatic or overindulgent. Ingle's music is more folk than piano pop.

When Ingle plays "Monastery," the strongest, most challenging song in the set, he addresses Jesus, and a belief that he is being tested for his strength of purpose: "In this hilltop monastery where the primrose speak a language all their own... out of earshot, out of time, the cellar's never out of wine...." It's a warm, spiritually conflicted song in which the narrator is searching for meaning. "I'll never take a wife," Ingle sings. "But I still have purpose in this life." It is haunting and elegant.

When "Monastery" ends, Ingle appears somewhat deflated, though I can't imagine why. The show has gone very well. He says little to the audience, aside from thanking us politely upon completion of the final song. But that's fine. We are happy to have heard him sing, and his soulful, contemplative music speaks well for itself.