Caught Live: The Tallest Man on Earth

Tonight’s show is sold out, an impressive if not surprising feat for Barden’s Boudoir and Kristian Matsson, The Tallest Man on Earth. Dalston is no Scandinavian township, you’ll find no glassy lakes, no wild strawberries are growing here, but outside Turkish grocery stores an array of brightly coloured fruits and vegetables are arranged in clear plastic bowls. Beneath the dank street lamps and gloomy facades of shop fronts, The Tallest Man on Earth’s folk songs might get short shrift in this glowering place.

Onto the show and the early signs are not good. This Frontier Needs Heroes, a New Yorker sibling duo are completely undermined by almost inaudible sound. The guitar – heard from two-feet away – is faint at best. This genial, good-humoured pair take the time to banter with the audience, apologising about Bush, thankful for Obama. Two friends standing less than a metre away look at one another in bemusement, ‘I didn’t hear a word of that,’ says one to the other.

One popular criticism of Barden’s Boudoir is the layout, a stretched oblong with the stage against a back wall bang in the middle of the venue. And during this meagre-sounding support set, the caverns either side of the audience, who’ve cluster together between pillars around the small stage, reverberate with the warmth of conversation. Indeed, everyone is here for The Tallest Man on Earth, whether you can hear the Americans performing or not.

A little while after the earnest New Yorkers leave the stage, a diminutive figure strides into the space, with hair lifted into a Mark Kermode-esque quiff, a baby blue cowboy shirt with the sleeves rolled high up his arms to reveal terse biceps. He fills the space on stage as if performing in a play, pacing around the corners. The audience are cooing as they recognise the face. He steps towards either flank of the audience, baring his teeth with a grin at those of us packed in at the front. All hail the Tallest Man on Earth!

Matsson is energised. Bullish, he stares into the eyes of audience members, this reviewer included. It’s unsettling but utterly involving. He begins with ‘The Blizzard’s Never Seen the Desert Sands’, a song that explodes into life, a searing, painfulness in Matsson’s fierce delivery. ‘I Won’t be Found’, a song about unrequited, elusive love that ends with the Tallest Man ‘six-feet under ground’ has the members of the audience enraptured, choral in their collective voice. Matsson delivery is refined. He unleashes his voice with a verve and confidence that hints at toil and constant practice but also natural gift. He loves to sing.

The height of this show is a few tracks further in. ‘The Gardener’ is the most powerful track from Shallow Graves. It’s a song as witty as Voltaire, as mournful as Tennyson with the Tallest Man longing for ‘death to grow my jasmine/I find it soothing, I’m afraid’, anything to remain ‘the Tallest Man in your eyes, babe’. It’s indicative of the song’s power that The Tallest Man can step away from the microphone, allowing us lot to sing the chorus, and, when he does step back in, his voice is embellished with the choir reinforcing his every word.
But there’s a strange scenario brewing in a pocket of the doting audience. A drunkard masquerading as Pop Idol evictee forces his baritone, shall we say, out and over the audience. It’s irritating. Matsson is effectively performing in the audience. He eyeballs tonight’s antagonist but, jocular, he’s thankful that he’s a fan, rather than a mocking beer boy (if not far off). The Tallest Man plays a few bars over in parts of ‘Where Do My Bluebirds Fly’, leaving the lumpy tenor to bellow the wrong lyrics. Matsson’s creativity is bountiful, the audience erupts.

As the set drives into its final stages, Matsson breaks a string and has to retune his second, smaller acoustic at regular intervals. ‘I’m pissed off,’ he says. ‘But not with you guys.’ Though that changes when tonight’s antagonist gets ballsy and strives to establish a direct dialogue. ‘Is that your sense of humour?’ Matsson enquires. ‘Because it’s not very funny,’ he adds, laughing. The audience laughs with him. As he finishes his riveting set, the Swede bows to stage-left, -right and –centre, before disappearing into the crowd.

The phrase ‘The Next Big Thing’ is a seasoned cliché now, but Kristian Matsson isn’t far from that sort of grandiose characterisation. Word of mouth does more than you might expect. ‘His voice is amazing,’ proclaims one woman on the street outside. And she’s not alone in feeling that way. Matsson is one of the best performers around and, ominously, his songs have the standalone quality and emotional scope to do more than simply placate the hype. The Tallest Man on Earth has the ingenuity and skill to move people. Here in murky Dalston, at least.