With ornate carvings etched into its wood panelled walls, the Melbourne Recital Centre is not your typical venue for a singer-songwriter, but then Kristian Matsson is not your typical singer-songwriter.
You’d be forgiven for thinking that’s the case though. Recalling simpler times, his music and folk presentation – open guitar tunings, lyrics of mountains, rivers, and birds – combine with a froggy voice that’s seen him regularly saddled with the ‘New Dylan’ tag. The Tallest Man On Earth has flourished beyond those cursing comparisons to funnel his own distinctive style that’s anything but derivative.
Largely thanks to his engaging live performances, the rustic charms of his tender songs and the nasally grain of his voice presented with a quirky honesty, where the only things that are embellished are the core elements.
Unfortunately the same cannot be said of his support act.
The Melbourne-based Chela plays one-woman disco-tronica, singing over sequencers and beats wrapped in an intentionally kitsch 80s backing (a la Ladyhawke), with the aide of a live guitarist.
But from the moment she arrives in her garish outfit – a leather waistcoat with a sailor’s cravat trim, over short bike pants, sporting a fedora topped with a feather – it feels like she’s compensating for a lack of something.
It’s not necessarily skill: she’s got a booming voice and a knack for electronically fused pop that aims left of the mainstream, but both musically as well as visually, it’s all too busy.
Especially the herky-jerky dance moves; her pop-locking beginning to grate and even distract from her music after a few numbers. She’s totally mismatched as The Tallest Man On Earth’s warm-up, not just in music but also in style. The garish pop presentation of looks and hooks completely clashing with the sincerity of the troubadour headliner.
To be fair, the venue’s cavernous space – designed for classical chamber ensembles – does little favours for her flashy performance, but the combination of overreaching enthusiasm and the stark stage makes it hard to shake the feeling of a school eisteddfod. Albeit the proverbial one she’d probably win, when varying elements aren’t competing for attention.
Arriving with a comical leap on stage worthy of a pantomime, with Matsson’s first chord of ‘The King of Spain’, the crowd erupts in appreciation. Remaining, for the duration of the evening, squarely in the performer’s palm.
In between phrases, he drolly creeps about, locks eyes with audience members then his cocked looks dart away. He lets the last refrain dangle mid-air, before reacting in mock surprise when his fans bellow the final chorus in tune but out of time.
The rousing ‘Love Is All’ and ‘To Grow Away’ continue his theatrics, showing he’s nothing if not a charismatic performer. But it becomes clear that it’s not a character that Matsson is playing here; but a natural inclination towards his instincts that helps him avoid the cliché of the torchlight singer-songwriter.
He strolls about stage, sits, stands, arches over his instrument, sings in and around the mic, and finishes a few numbers by gleefully tossing his plectrum – all with a sincere intensity.
With his dishevelled hair and wispy whiskers, he has the look of a man who’s been stuck on a plane for days, which is exactly the case.
“I flew in yesterday” he admits and “hasn’t slept” since he departed from his native Sweden four days earlier. He does look slightly haggard, but his voice and playing are so on point it’s hard to believe him. That, or sleep deprivation is clearly doing him wonders.
Following a spritely ‘1904’, he moves to the grand piano stage left. “I’m just a scruffy little dude from Sweden,” he says, “who they let play this beautiful Steinway.” As he moves into a brisker version of ‘There’s No Leaving Now’, the title track of his third and latest LP, it’s clear why they allowed him the privilege.
He has incredible mastery and makes the most of a simplified palette; pushing and pulling tempo, volume, and varying between deft finger-picking and busied strumming – and like a true pro, he makes it look easy.
Beginning ‘Burden of Tomorrow’, he strolls across the stage, reaches for his bottle of water, uncaps it and swigs – all the while perfectly plucking away at his guitar with one hand.
Even his self-deprecating anti-banter consistently draws warm giggles from the audience. Later telling himself jokingly to “shut up now,” and instead wordlessly gifts his appreciation by blowing kisses.
The spooked, watery chords of ‘Where Do My Bluebird Fly?’ and riveting turns at ‘Criminals’ and ‘Revelation Blues’ are highlights, but as he later jests, “all my songs are the same,” but the inseparable synergy of melodic voice and instrument is always satisfying.
After ‘Kids On The Run’, the ‘last’ number of a 75min set, he returns for ‘Thousand Ways’, then tunes his acoustic. The gap invites a volley of audience requests, culminating with a cry of “King of Spain. Again!”
With a chuckle he trots to the mic “you want me to play all those songs?” Given the rapturous response, anyone here would take him up on that magical offer.
Instead he concludes with ‘The Wild Hunt’, which segues into a lilting version of ‘Graceland’. Paring back Paul Simon’s original into a positively charming duet, inviting his wife Amanda Bergman (aka Idiot Wind), on stage to harmonise as the two share the mic, gazing into each other’s eyes and Matsson playfully courting her between choruses.
An enchanting end to a spellbinding performance that shows that sometimes the simplest pleasures are some of life’s best.
