Rain-soaked shoes sticking to the floor of the O2. The air smells like a blend of damp denim and overpriced lager, thick with something else—expectation, maybe, or just the slow-burn buzz of 20,000 people waiting for a man in a flannel to articulate their unspeakable anxieties.
And then he’s here. Noah Kahan. The troubadour of Vermont heartbreak. The guy who somehow made seasonal depression a rallying cry. No theatrics, no preamble, just the first chime of “Dial Drunk” and the instant, collective exhale of a crowd that has already decided they’re going to feel this one. Hard.
There’s something beautifully self-sabotaging about opening with this song. It’s a confession, an apology, a stupid, desperate voicemail left at 2 a.m. from a bar bathroom—and everyone here sings it like a hymn. The room moves in a way that isn’t dancing but isn’t stillness either, just a pulsing, swaying mass of people letting Noah’s scratchy falsetto carry them somewhere they’re not sure they want to go.
The thing about Kahan’s live show is that it doesn’t feel like a performance. It feels like an unspooling. There’s no rockstar posturing, no forced crowd work—just a guy and his guitar, delivering these brutally precise little stories, one after another. And in between? The kind of dry, self-effacing humor that makes you wonder if he processes all emotions through sarcasm or if he’s just nervous.
“New Perspective” lands like a sigh—softer, stretchier, a moment of reprieve. Kahan closes his eyes and leans into it, fingers moving with the kind of absentminded precision that only comes from playing these songs so many times they’ve become muscle memory. The audience hushes, mostly. Some couples are slow-dancing in that awkward, concert-friendly way, where they’re not really moving but they are definitely swaying with intent.
“Everywhere, Everything” is where the night tilts. The kind of song that feels physically heavier live, like it’s been weighted down with something extra. Maybe it’s the harmonies, stacked and ringing out over the arena like a choir of ghosts. Maybe it’s the way Kahan’s voice catches, just slightly, on the chorus—like he’s feeling it again, in real time, even after all these shows.
“She Calls Me Back” is the reset button. It’s jittery and urgent and forces people to shake themselves out of whatever reverie they’d slipped into. Noah, for the first time, looks truly loose, grinning between verses like he’s just remembered how much he enjoys this part. Someone in the front row throws what appears to be a flannel shirt onto the stage. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but it stays there, crumpled by his feet, a totem of devotion.
And then, the inevitable. The one everyone’s been waiting for. The first few notes of “Stick Season” are met with the kind of deafening, visceral reaction usually reserved for football goals or pop megastars with wireless mics. But Kahan doesn’t need choreography or pyro. He just needs a banjo, a well-worn chorus, and 20,000 people willing to scream their guts out.
It’s strange, watching an arena full of people sing about isolation. About the particular ache of small towns and long winters and the deep, relentless loneliness that Kahan distills so precisely into melody. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? His songs are lonely, but no one is alone in this moment. The whole place is one voice, one story, one shared heartbreak.
And then, without ceremony, it’s over. No encore games, no fake exits. Just Noah nodding, murmuring a thank you, and walking off while the last notes still hang in the air. The lights come up, and reality creeps back in. People sniffle, laugh, wrap their coats tighter around themselves. Outside, the London drizzle is still waiting, cool and indifferent, ready to carry them home.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
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