Martin Sexton

A diehard road warrior, Martin Sexton has garnered some of the most devoted fans of any singer-songwriter on the theater circuit. Mixing blues, gospel, R&B and country-rock, the Syracuse, N.Y., native embodies the essence of Americana music. His latest album, “Solo,” features songs culled from his live set. You can catch him in performance at the Handlebar in Greenville on Oct. 15.

Russell Hall: You often create music with objects that aren’t typically thought of as having a musical utility. What’s the idea behind that?

Martin Sexton: It really has to do with the sound they make. It’s total happenstance. If I need a sort of clangy sound to help out the snare, or the backbeat, for instance, I might run out to the boathouse and find an old tin minnow bucket. Or I might use a dinner bell for something else. I like the physical sound these objects make. It’s not a conscious effort to be different. It’s just that I’m the lowest tech guy in the world.

RH: You also use your voice to make a variety of sounds, beyond just singing.

MS: That’s probably because I don’t like waste. I come from a large family — I was the 10th of 12 kids — and nothing ever went to waste in our house. I hate seeing food that’s not eaten, or half-empty bottles of spring water. I love getting the most out of everything, whether it’s a minnow bucket, or a dinner bell, or a banjo or my voice. I don’t just sing the lyrics. I’ll scat and I’ll make a trumpet noise, or a drum sound.

RH: Is it true that Mel Blanc was an influence?

MS: Totally. I needed to see someone else do that, which sort of gave me permission to do it. Mel Blanc had hundreds of different voices — from Tweety Bird to Bugs Bunny to Barney Rubble. That was a green light for me to do those things — to make an old man appear in a tune, or to do a yodel or whistle.

RH: Have you ever received a compliment that made a deep impression on you?

MS: Yes. Many years ago, as a street performer, I was singing in the Porter Square subway station in Cambridge, Mass. I was playing my guitar and singing “Hard Times,” by Ray Charles. The escalator there is very long, so much so that you hear the music long before you actually see the artist who’s playing. This African-American lady — who looked like she was about 80 years old — came up the escalator. Her eyes got wide, and she walked over and gently placed a rumpled dollar bill in my guitar case. “You’ve got some ‘black’ in you someplace,” she said. That planted a seed that’s grown into a pillar of strength.

RH: It’s clear in the grooves of your records that you’re reveling in what you do.

MS: That’s totally true. I’m a happy man. I’ve been doing this for a long time, but I’m still like a 12-year-old boy. My life is a dream come true. I feel blessed that I get to do this, and that puts joy into my music. I’m not a religious person, but I am spiritual. And I’m grateful for what I have.