The Tallest Man On Earth – Bush Hall, London 15/03/10

Such is the mythic figure of Kristian Matsson, The Tallest Man on Earth, whose presence on stage tonight at Bush Hall inspires a mood of almost religious fervour and devotion.

Matsson’s new record The Wild Hunt represents a marked contrast to his sublime debut Shallow Graves in both sound, subject and tone. The “I” of the first record appears to be less personal this time around as Matsson embraces elements of the narrative fantastical in songs like ‘The King of Spain’ and the album’s title track. More obviously, the somber heartbreak and overwhelmingly autumnal melancholy of the first record has been replaced in large parts by a blanket of the upbeat, freneticity prefigured by ‘The Gardner’, that lone bearer of happiness on the first record. The Wild Hunt is a summer record through and through, with Matsson cast as the victorious-in-love troubadour.

And boy, the guy’s as handsome as Jimmy Dean or a pre-bloat Brando – all cheekbones, rolled sleeves and and curled lip charisma. He’s a sparring boxer, two-stepping round the stage and wringing every drop of melody from his guitar, which he slings to his side on occasion, like a cavalryman between shots.

The songs from Shallow Grave are even more pronounced in their melancholy tonight alongside newer tracks. ‘You’re Going Back’, with it’s wailing, cautionary “Driver, please don’t go that fucking way!” is a purging, glorious highhlight, but it’s ‘Where Do My Bluebirds Fly’ and ‘The Gardner’ that get the most profound reception. There’s also a suprise duet with Matsson joined by the sublime Amanda Bergman (aka the wonderful Hajen and previously of Jaw Lesson).

It’s almost impossible to take one’s eyes from the figure on-stage. Matsson’s stage persona is a soul painted in equals parts as tortured folk singer, witty ranconteur and control freak – and I use that phrase with amelioration, for there is a quiet, determined and masterful control in all elements of his performance. It’s there in the way Matsson tunes up his guitar by ear, in the way he reaches for notes (vocal and musical) with both precision and exertion, and in the power he holds over the audience.

Through subtle hand gestures, deathly stares, darting eyes and occasional spoken challenges, Matsson ensures that any interruptions to profound and quiet moments are kept that way. He leans out into the hall, listening for the reverberations and echo coming right back at him. But it’s not about disconnection from the audience – quite the opposite. Those of us in the front rows are treated to moments of spine-tingling intimacy as Matsson lurches over his guitar and plays his heart out, inches from our faces. We become an essential part of the equation, as if the music simply doesn’t exist without hundreds of collective ears and eyes to validate it.

Whether there’s a quiet catharsis going on inside that twisting brow and gurning yelp is anyone’s guess. Perhaps there are terrible demons and beatiful angels inside Matsson but he’s channelled them with a grace and perfection into his songs and performance – a skill of such rare commodity in these times.