For the last nine months or so, artists have had to get creative with their performances. In the beginning, when we naively expected a quick resolution to a global problem, artists were livestreaming quaint sets from their homes. It was humbling seeing them in their natural habitats, without all the bells and whistles – you felt like a part of their circle.
More recently, bands have figured out how to livestream full band sets from venues or studios and charge a ticket fee to support them and their crews at a time when no one is making money. There’s always a next level however, and last month Kristian Mattson, aka The Tallest Man on Earth, took it there.
It was as if this beast that has been lying dormant inside him for months caught a glimpse of daylight and tried to claw its way out.
For his foray into pandemia performance, he and a talented group of friends took over his ex-wife’s barn and spent a week or so wiring it up to fashion themselves a one-night-only venue. With various thrift store-esque couches and chairs spread out, they were able to accommodate an in-person audience of roughly 50 people. (It’s worth noting the restrictions over in Sweden appear to be vastly different than what we’re currently experiencing in the States or the UK.) Throughout the process, Mattson asked his “fishing buddy” Rolf Nylinder to capture whatever footage he thought might be useful. It became a sort of documentary-performance hybrid centered around a single show amid a long stretch of isolation.
Nylinder served as a de facto narrator, sprinkling in some dry humour throughout the film – a nice touch. He referred to almost everyone involved as a “super genius”, and noted he felt a bit of impostor syndrome; supposedly, he had never filmed a concert before. You certainly wouldn’t know. Honestly, it was the scenery shots that felt a bit overdone. At first, the breathtaking Swedish backdrop was a nice mood setter, but after a while it felt like you were watching the same clips over and over again.
Mattson’s performance was wonderful as always. For anyone who has seen him perform before, you already know he’s one of the more charismatic performers out there, and certainly the most charismatic singer/songwriter. While nothing’s inherently changed, it was clear that quarantine had worn on him a bit. He was more subdued, and yet his vocals were as passionate as I’ve ever heard, his twangy voice at multiple points approaching something of a yell. It was as if this beast that has been lying dormant inside him for months caught a glimpse of daylight and tried to claw its way out. This was particularly true on ‘Love Is All’, one of the staples that thankfully held a place in this set.
As nice as the documentary portions were, what I and so many of you miss more than anything is live music. I wish we got to see more of it.
Something else to note about Mattson is that, for most of his songs, he rarely plays them the same way twice. This remained so in the barn, to the point where he even invited the owner of the barn, Amanda Bergmann, and Klara Soderberg of First Aid Kit to sing harmonies on a few songs. Hearing his songs with a female element present made me yearn for a record like this. ‘The Dreamer’ worked especially well, to the point where I’d dare to say I preferred this version to the studio one.
At one point during the film, Kristian states – and I’m paraphrasing here – “I’m not going to apologise, but I’ll be playing extra long tonight. You may end up leaving early,” which segues nicely to my only gripe. As nice as the documentary portions were, what I and so many of you miss more than anything is live music. I wish we got to see more of it. I would go so far as to say this didn’t feel much like a set, but rather a series of performances sprinkled throughout a narrative.
That narrative felt like filler most of the time, save for a few special moments. Near the end, Nylinder was praising his friend and noted that if there was one thing Mattson was more passionate about than music, it was spreading kindness. “You can practice kindness just like you can practice an instrument,” Nylinder says. An apt reminder that there’s always room to hone your craft, whether it be for art or just simply being a good person.
Mattson’s music is inherently rife with isolation – after all, he typically creates in a solitary environment. But in the Little Red Barn, it felt just the opposite. It brought fans together from all over, regardless if not in person. And it reunited an artist with some of his crew for the first time in almost a year. It felt communal – and that’s all the beauty one could ever hope for.
