Adams’ solo concert at the Paris Bataclan was no different—two-plus hours of acoustic navel-gazing, with him alternately hunched over a guitar or seated at a piano, as if perpetually on the verge of a spiritual breakdown. The setlist was an odd mix of his back catalog alongside a number of covers from his predictable obsessions, namely The Doors and The Velvet Underground. His reverence for these legends is clear, but sometimes you wish he’d dial it back and focus on his own material. His insistance on playing in the near dark also didn't help matters...
The night was saved, somewhat, by his stage banter. Adams’ humor—acerbic, self-deprecating, and occasionally genuinely funny—added much-needed levity to what could have been an insufferable night of introspection. There’s an irony in watching someone whose music radiates self-seriousness mock himself so openly between songs. It kept the performance from sliding completely into pretentiousness.
Ultimately, it’s clear Adams still has the talent and the songs to captivate an audience. It’s just a shame his personal baggage casts such a long shadow. For those who can look past it, the concert was a reminder of why Ryan Adams once mattered. But for everyone else, the door closed a long time ago.
