Live Review: Sufjan Stevens, Ngaiire

The spacious, classy confines of QPAC’s concert hall are abuzz with energy — as much as can be expected from a seated audience — when the house lights go down and Sufjan Stevens commences his performance, the last of his Australian tour. And it truly is a performance, in the most honest sense of the word.

The crowd is already warmed, having been wooed by the stylish presence and vocal dexterity of local neo-soul chanteuse Ngaiire, but even if we hadn’t been, it wouldn’t take much for Stevens and his four-piece backing band of enthralling multi-instrumentalists to ensnare every heart, mind and pair of ears in the room.

Though tonight’s experience takes its soundtrack foremost from Stevens’ gorgeous, grieving 2015 record Carrie & Lowell, the musicians creep to life with the slow-build strains of the Michigan-era Redford (For Yia-Yia & Pappou), its airy piano chords and lilting voices lulling us in with gentle, growing exhalations for the ride that awaits us.

What a ride it turns out to be; over the next two hours, Stevens and his prodigiously talented ensemble deliver a near-faultless display of aural and visual splendour. As washed-out home movies play projected behind them, the band launch into the finger-plucked softness of Death With Dignity, the first of many overt references tonight to the fleeting nature of our time on Earth. In fact, the entire performance – as with the album itself, being an exercise in catharsis following the 2012 death of Stevens’ mother – is underpinned by a sense of inescapable morbidity, but it’s presented so beautifully, expressed so remarkably, that there is a palpable sense of celebration to the whole affair despite the persistent emotional weight.

That element of joyousness rears its head throughout Stevens’ set in both overt and unexpected ways; it’s present everywhere, from the sudden uplift in early standout Should’ve Known Better, which builds from timid reflection piece to hugely infectious electronic groove before washing away into the night, to the brief moments of levity that manifest every time that hugs are exchanged on-stage between band members. It’s in sonic choices such as infusing Fourth Of July’s concluding refrain of the breathy, morbid-on-record “We’re all gonna die” with booming, upbeat revelry for the dark fact that life can only be beautiful because it ends for us all, and in the intimacy that moves into its place as it all strips back for the outstanding No Shade In The Shadow Of The Cross.

The delicate arpeggios and layered, lengthy crescendo of Carrie & Lowell itself prove another standout moment in a show liberally strewn with highlights, simultaneously marking the end of the evening’s major focus on the album as the band move into the reverb-drenched lamentations of The Owl & The Tanager, from 2010’s All Delighted People EP. The Age Of Adz’s Vesuvius follows, transcending arguably everything that has come before it as a jaw-dropping display of musicianship, dynamics, instrumental interplay, and awkward dancing from the hypnotic figure at the core of it all. Everything we've seen so far has received healthy, vocal, appreciative applause, but Vesuvius’ response — as we recover from its climactic, explosive light-and-sound show — is the sound of a crowd that have been sincerely, next-level blown away.

A special mention must be made here of whoever co-ordinated tonight’s mixing, lighting and projection, because the magnificence of all three elements contribute to the lasting impact of the performance in a significant but oft-unappreciated way. During the show’s more intimate moments, the home videos behind the musicians lend an additional element of candidness and emotionality to proceedings; in the throes of its aurally massive, electronically assisted explosions of sound and noise, the lightshow comes within a hair’s width of encouraging a full-on outer-body experience.

In aid of our recovery, everything strips back for fellow Age Of Adz cut Futile Devices before returning to Carrie & Lowell territory with downtempo main-set closer Blue Bucket Of Gold, which turns its usually four-minute run time into a mind-warping near-10-minute slide into cacophony, bringing forth a standing ovation from the rapturously receptive crowd at its conclusion, an expression of appreciation that continues for a solid few minutes before Stevens and his band return to the stage for a throwback encore set.

Stevens has changed shirts from a black death-metal piece — “I was wearing a death metal shirt singing about death — so meta,” he jokes — to a bright orange “Paradise Garage” number, or his “Sexy clown Garbage Pail Kid” look, in his words. It’s part of a “colour therapy” practice he was put onto by his psychologist, who “says whenever I feel impending cosmic existential gloom, to… to change my outfit”, he tells us, to broad laughter. It’s the most he’s said all night, and this brief moment of vulnerability and humour only serves to strengthen the affection brimming in the room.

The encore is a wonder unto itself; seven songs of stripped-back, classic Sufjan, he and his band all crowded around a single microphone strapped only with acoustic instruments. The sight of Stevens’ banjo at last brings out audible response before a note has been plucked of For The Widows In Paradise, For The Fatherless In Ypsilanti, from Michigan, while All The Trees Of The Field Will Clap Their Hands, from Seven Swans, and whose title was blatantly stolen — Stevens’ words — from an old Sunday School song, brings early vocal enthusiasm as the crowd latches onto the looping banjo riff.

Stevens takes another narrative detour to open up about reading the essays of French philosopher Michel de Montaigne on his recent travels; on finding particular resonance with one of Montaigne's theories regarding the diminishing returns of appreciation and sentiment for objects, places and people the more common or everyday a part of our lives they become. It's an oddly affecting moment, gently prodding us all to strive to constantly look for the beauty that lives in each passing moment.

We don't have to look far, of course; the beauty comes straight to us via two more Seven Swans tunes, obvious favourites The Dress Looks Nice On You — which carries pretty much the only misstep of the night, as one of Sufjan’s bandmates brings in a banjo line that is audibly out of tune, bringing the song to a halt as the group endure a good-humoured, ultimately trivial tuning break before recommencing — and To Be Alone With You, before bringing the journey to a close with a trio of outstanding songs from Stevens’ seminal LP Illinois — John Wayne Gacy, Jr, the most beautiful song ever written about a serial killer; the delicate sweetness and sadness of The Predatory Wasp Of The Palisades Is Out To Get Us!; and a re-envisioned interpretation of the still-wonderful Chicago, for which he brings out Ngaiire to lend her talents to the song’s plentiful choral vocals, bringing the entire evening to a joyously communal close.

It’s a stunningly executed, fittingly heartfelt note on which to properly end the show, and the calibre of the performance is reflected instantly in the audience’s decision to give Stevens and his musicians a boisterous second standing ovation, each of us no doubt silently hoping that, if we clap long enough, maybe we’ll convince them to stay with us a while longer to squeeze just a little more from this already unforgettable night.