The Tallest Man in Rome
It’s Friday night, and Kristian Matsson has a problem. Just two songs into his set, the Swedish singer-songwriter has busted the pick on his right thumb.
He, along with a crowd of about a thousand in Rome’s Auditorium Parco della Musica, now find themselves awkwardly waiting for the adhesive on his new pick to set.
The position is a familiar one for Matsson, though. Guitar-less, he scans a dimly lit crowd of indistinct faces and remarks:
I have this recurring stress dream.
I come out to play in front of a lovely audience like this. I step out on stage, and I realize I forgot my capo backstage. So I say, ‘I left my capo backstage. I’ll be right back.’ But it’s not backstage; I left it at home. So I go outside and get on a bus, but the bus takes forever and you all are waiting and waiting. And when I get back, there’s only about ten people here, and they all write shitty things about my music online and in Youtube comments…
And that’s kinda how I feel right now, standing here, waiting for this glue to dry.
Donning the moniker “The Tallest Man on Earth” (and all-white casual wear tonight), Matsson is as solicitous as he is talented. When he first addressed the capacity crowd that evening in Rome, he offered a whispered apology: “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian.” Between nearly every song, he thanked the audience for listening — his “sweet people,” as he’s known to call them.
Halfway through the set, he paused to marvel at their showing up in the first place: “If you weren’t here, I’d probably just be yelling in a room somewhere.”
Kind rapport has become somewhat of a trademark of Matsson’s live shows. But to call his performance a humble one is to mistake the music for the man. When he’s not indulging in rare moments of banter, the Swede is sharply picking his way through an eclectic, one-man set of indie-folk ballads.
In ripped, white skinny-jeans, Matsson bends and twists across a relatively unadorned stage. Before he’s even begun the first lines of “Love Is All,” he’s nearly folded himself completely into his ash-wood telecaster. His voice — a coarse, passionate growl — breaks the tension.
The Auditorium Parco della Musica is a few miles north of the Galleria Borghese in Rome, and for nearly two hours on Friday, its Sala Sinopoli room belonged to The Tallest Man on Earth.
With its cardinal-red cloth seats and thin cherry-wood panels, the compact venue gives the illusion of sitting inside a matchbox. Even as the lights dimmed and the cherry turned dark, each seat glowed red. The Tallest Man on Earth, in his starchy white get-up, looked ready to strike every stick in the box.
Matsson’s music offers little in the way of levity, though. Behind incredible picking patterns and woolen vocals lie cogent propositions.
“I Won’t Be Found” features a resignation to unspoken grief: “I know there is a hollow / I need to fill it with a draft / Of all the words that I won’t say.” And, in “Time of the Blue” he asks: “Now is it fear? / How does it ring? … When is quiet coming?”
It’s this kind of layering that sets Matsson apart. He puts down dizzying guitar arrangements, paints earth tones with his voice, and laces it all together with saturated lyrics. It’s hard to believe a single person is behind this orchestra of meaning. And it’s even more astounding to spend an evening watching it all unfold.
I first saw The Tallest Man on Earth in 2015 at the Midland Theater in Kansas City. Fresh off the release of his fourth album, “Dark Bird Is Home,” Matsson was accompanied by a full band and backing vocals.
While beautiful in its entirety, Matsson’s performance that evening seemed its purest when he found himself completely alone on stage, save his guitar and a small stool.
It’s not reductive to claim this solo arrangement is Matsson at his best. It’s one that’s sure to serve him well on this quick European tour, starting here tonight in Rome and concluding next week in Linköping, Sweden.
Timeless and mystifying, this first performance of the tour felt germane to the city surrounding it.
“Okay, I think it’s set now,” Matsson says, referring again to the glue on his thumb. He’s handed another guitar in the dark, this one different and somehow more beautiful than the last.
Matsson plugs in, tests a few chords, and anticipation grows. It’s why we’re here, after all — to watch his incredible talent manifest.
As is custom, he offers another “Thank you, sweet people,” and dives back into his set.
