Supposedly excluded from high school for wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a melting ice cube that read Christianity is Stupid…Give Up. If all is to be believed, Adams has been a magnet for trouble for most of his life. Ryan Adams has been an artist that has managed to succeed at either end of the spectrum. I, like everyone else, was bewildered as I left the building, but I was also transfixed.įast forward seven years and I saw Ryan two months ago, solo, slightly less eventful – sober, drinking tea and quietly strumming an acoustic guitar as he sweetly sang. The band – bemused – finish the song and say goodnight.
He’s helped up and back on stage and rushed off the back. He has fallen off the stage and into the six-foot-plus opera pit below, severely breaking his wrist in the process. About half way through he vanishes from the stage and a thud echoes through the microphone like a gunshot. Then he begins the majestic ‘The Shadowlands’. I remember shouts to people stood side of stage for vodka, even proclaiming at one point, “No fucking Red-Bull this time!” As he sang ‘Sylvia Plath’ he climbed speaker stacks and hung within tangible distance, crooning and smoking hellishly. A roadie ran out and mopped it up as Adams staggered and seethed his way through ‘So Alive’.
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Within minutes of being on stage he had knocked a full beer over. He had died his hair a bright orange, looked suitably dishevelled yet exuded a ramshackle cool. He was touring his albums ‘Rock’N’Roll’ and ‘Love Is Hell’. The first time I saw Ryan Adams was in January 2004.
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