Caught Live: The Tallest Man On Earth @ O2 Shepherd's Bush Empire, London

Avoiding the first person in review. It’s a good rule to stick to as much as possible unless you are gonna run off on a Hunter S Thompson tip. I’m not gonna do that (did you see that? I’M). Now that that barrier’s broken it’s also worth noting another rule – this time a personal one of mine – keep the criticism (and most importantly praise) as much to the artist as is humanly possible. Allowing your own mood and circumstances to affect how you portray a concert is pretty unprofessional. So I’m going to be pretty unprofessional.

First, just so we’re clear – The Tallest Man On Earth is a rare and magical artist, his transportive voice, emotive playing, and the bright, surreal imagery of his lyrics are a pure joy.

But these qualities, these extraordinary gifts, can only be appreciated if you are able to hear them. Now, I’m not one to say that all London crowds are a bit of a waste of skin but, oh, I think I’ll just go ahead and say it. Tonight is half-full with dedicated followers of this troubadour, half-full with a combination of lads on the lash, coked-up industry scumbags and screeching PR girlies wondering how long they have to stay at the show. Loudly.

The heartstring yanking pop of ‘You’re Going Back’, the dark tenderness of ‘Love Is All’ – superbly complimented by ignorant, worthless morons jabbering at their lager-filled mates about their empty lives. The delicate grace of ‘The Dreamer’ and his stunning ‘Pistol Dreams’ – both vastly improved by mugs screaming abuse during the quiet breaks and spending the rest of their time shoving people and mock-shushing out of their filthy pointless mouths.

Could, perhaps, Shepherd’s Bush Empire turn the sound up? As they should have done at countless other ‘quiet’ shows here (Will Oldham, Lanegan and Campbell, Evan Dando etc)that were ruined by people who don’t deserve to hear live music? Nah. Hardly worth the effort. They’ve already got our money after all.

By the way the Swedish singer-songwriter has a tremendous stage presence – a world away from your standard look-at-the-floor acoustic strugglers we’re more used to – but as engaging as he is it’s very hard to engage a good group of people towards the back who aren’t even looking at the stage.The first twenty or so rows get an awesome full-band romp through ‘King Of Spain’ and a new piano-led, Neil Young-inspired tune while the rest of us get bar staff smashing bottles in bins, suits yakking on their smartphones about other bands and first-time-drunk teens arguing with their inebriated, spectacularly vacuous ‘girl’ friends.

And the funny thing? This just DOES NOT HAPPEN in the rest of the country. Just here. Just in London. Sure, at shows in Cardiff, Manchester, York – wherever – you may have a few people chatting or being lairy. They normally get quietened down or get bored with themselves. But here we have a good 50% of an audience just being plain pig ignorant. It’s stunning.

Luckily Mr On Earth has those rows of followers and the rest of the 50% of the crowd who give him a hero’s response. But the sound of listening and appreciating, however loud you cheer between songs, isn’t quite as loud as the sound of a ton of people being absolute dickheads.

So, on behalf of London’s wastrel crowds I apologise – to Mr On Earth (yes, I know his name’s Kristian but Mr On Earth is better) and to the hardcore fans, many of whom had travelled miles to see their hero. The beauteous encore of ‘Kids On The Run’ went a fair way to making up for it but unfortunately, unless the lyrics to that song are ‘YEAH, YEAH I SHOULD BE HOME BY 12 BUT YEAH, I’M HAMMERED’ then I feel we all may have missed out a tiny little bit.

Goodnight London, and shut the fuck up.

Photo by Anni Timms, for a full gallery click here.