To transport you to Justin Nozuka’s Birmingham concert, allow me to use the lens of the couple stood next to me. Both in their mid-40s, they had travelled all the way from Bristol. The man claimed he had waited seventeen years to see Nozuka live. Both were tipsy, courtesy of the O2 Institute 3’s bar, and both were very impassioned when it came to Nozuka’s discography. I use this couple as a device through which to relay my experience of this concert: an intimate affair with diehard fans clinging to Nozuka’s every word.

Cleverly, Nozuka let the music speak for itself. The stage was bare, save for a couple of mic stands, guitars, a loop pedal and a chair. He walked on to an airy, pre-recorded intro, sampled vocals crashing into each other like little waves. As he reached for his guitar and played the opening chords of ‘SUV’, the audience couldn’t help but be absorbed in the music as one gets lost in a painting. Nozuka didn’t need an elaborate stage setup or even a band. His presence and talent was enough, and he knew that.

Nozuka didn’t need an elaborate stage setup or even a band. His presence and talent was enough, and he knew that.

The romantic slow-burner ‘SUV’ set the tone for much of the set’s first stretch, a collection of songs pulled largely from his latest album, Chlorine. ‘444’ had Nozuka’s yearning voice fluttering through the speakers like a paper airplane in a breeze. During both ‘Orange Lampshade’ and ‘Break Me’, his vocals crescendoed and reached an entrancing peak, at the summit of a mountain only he could reach. The rest of us just watched in awe.

A highlight was ‘Dwell’, whose lyrics – as Nozuka explained – felt as though he were ‘saying something from a dream’. Masterfully layering plucked arpeggios with his loop pedal (like a subdued version of Radiohead’s ‘Weird Fishes’), Nozuka toggled between flitting into falsetto and full-on belting. At times, the mic would naturally sink from mouth- to waist-level; he would stop singing into the mic and start singing into the air. He stopped performing and started feeling. A vein began to creep out from the side of his neck as he sang with impassioned fury; the audience was transfixed.

He stopped performing and started feeling.

After a similarly bewitching performance of ‘Berlin Spins’, which had him bathed in flashes of white and red light to match his crashing instrumental, Nozuka pulled up a chair and ditched the loop pedal for an acoustic set of songs. Audience requests allowed him to play several older tunes, including the impressive ‘Be Back Soon’, which allowed him to properly flex his vocal gymnastics, his voice dancing around the room. The audience provided backing vocals for the heartwrenching ‘Save Him’, an ominous set of guitar chords steeping the song’s haunting refrain (‘save him from the hand that he beats me on’) in unmistakable tragedy.

Returning to the loop pedal, Nozuka played ‘Take It or Leave It’, a beautiful snowglobe of a song where his voice pierced through a misty wall of sound. The aforementioned couple next to me sang quietly and swayed together. When Nozuka left the stage, they were outraged. ‘Come back now!’ the woman shouted jokingly. ‘Please!’ Thankfully, we were treated to an encore, and his final song – the classic ‘Right by You’ – was so quiet and tranquil you could hear the dull hum of the air conditioning over his tender performance.

…we were treated to an encore, and his final song – the classic ‘Right by You’ – was so quiet and tranquil you could hear the dull hum of the air conditioning over his tender performance.

Nozuka’s voice glided around like skates on an ice rink as the crowd crescendoed with him to the belter of a statement: ‘I will do right by you’. It was a fitting message for a small but loyal fanbase who clearly had his back. The couple were happy. ‘I need the toilet now,’ the woman declared when the lights went up, ‘but that was amazing.’ Both statements I can get behind.

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