Widely lauded as the saviour of something or other that’s intrinsically secular this year thus far, the success story of a certain Father John Misty is relatively self-explanatory. For via this somewhat Machiavellian alter ego of sorts, erstwhile Fleet Fox Josh Tillman has seemingly managed to embody the mantra, ‘Good guys finish last’ or, to paraphrase the forever unpalatable Bowling for Soup, ‘The bad guy all the girls want.’ He’s “livin’ it up”; the sort of cocksure, swaggering, inglorious bastard that guys want to bash jars of rocky whisky with come some incomparably rowdy Friday night – not quite that upon which “John the Baptist took Jesus Christ down to the river”, then – and one that girls want to bang long into Saturday morning whilst still “drunk and hot/ Wide awake and breathing hard.” Or something to such crude extent… Nonetheless, the reasons behind his success are, seemingly, twofold, in that it’s so much easier to embody the emboldened bastard seen on stages far, and indeed widely dispersed throughout the world, when hiding behind an alter ego. Things become that bit more nebulous; misty, even, as it’s the persona, and not the person therein that we’re privy to. And if his ludicrously eloquent lyrical content is anything to go on, then Tillman benefits from quite the brain; the sort of cerebrum capable not only of conjuring the enigmatic ‘Father John Misty’ in the first instance, but of scrupulously keeping to script thereafter. Where he goes from here, who knows; but for the time being, there is likely little of which Tillman is incapable.

Two totally sold out nights at the O2 Shepherd’s Bush Empire, for starters, is not, nor ever to be sniffed at; no matter the fact that beatific label mates Beach House have achieved a similar feat, taking over this last remaining bastion of West London’s dwindling credibility once more, for the two nights subsequent. But what is it about Tillman, or this ‘Misty’ that makes him so compelling a presence? Personally, I’ve found the unanimous fascination with both man and myth to be more or less the most fascinating thing about both man and myth thus far; regardless of how well his lyrics may ebb and flow, swinging, sometimes unhinged, between the macabre and the maudlin. Well, he is ‘metamodernism’s epic poet’, after all…

But why do people keep feeling this fascination? Is it the feeling that has been poured into the songs themselves? It’s perhaps that bit too calculated, and by extension, cold for that, I think. So I ask those sat around me in Level 1: “It’s the lyrics,” says the slurring quinquagenarian sat to my left, his opinions quicksilver as the argent strands that cascade down his forehead. “He’s just different; it’s his take on society, also” he contends, almost countering himself. Incidentally, and I won’t dwell on this idle chit-chat for too much longer, it was his “mate” – sat, in turn, to his left tonight – who first introduced him to Father John Misty, or indeed J. Tillman’s shushed, if still extensive back catalogue. His reasons? Keywords such as “irreverence,” that he’s “a great drummer” and looked, on TV at Glastonbury, at least, like “a bit of a mincer.” Intriguingly enough, he and his wife’s first dance at their recent wedding was to Chateau Lobby #4 (in C for Two Virgins) – a bold statement, not least in light of waltzing around a room brimming with your dearly beloved to such explicit lyrics as, “I wanna take you in the kitchen/ Lift up your wedding dress someone was probably murdered in.” We may be neither near nor dear to either one of Tillman or Misty, although that he’s both dear and beloved to many, if not most of the Empire is palpably apparent; the subliminal messaging provided by playing Serge Gainsbourg’s unapologetically coital Je t’aime… moi non plus seconds prior to showtime is probably unnecessary, therefore.

Because, backlit and boldly silhouetted for the opening stanzas of I Love You, Honeybear, against a seductive red velveteen backdrop, resistance is effing futile. Misty wrings his wrists with the vigour of an evergreen Nick Cave, ridding irredeemable demons; he slides on his knees like Springsteen, before writhing around on the floor with exorcistic relish; he’s stood atop the kick drum one second, and can be seen straddling the barrier the next. It’s as much a breathless introduction as it is a breathtaking one. “Fuck the world, damn straight malaise” he’ll violently lament, with all the beleaguered nihilism of the sort of tortured artiste Tillman’s striving never to become; “It may be just us who feel this way” he’ll continue, referencing the reductive attitudinal tendencies of both he and his wife, or “Honeybear”, Emma. Although this slant on modern-day society – a slant that’s seeing it essentially headed, full steam ahead, for Hell in a handcart – is one in which, or so it would appear, a perturbing number of people now share, hence Father John Misty’s appeal, perhaps. He’s telling it like it is, with utmost conviction, in a register that’s the preserve of precious few contemporary artists. “Good luck fingering oblivion,” then, and on so eminently swoonsome a lyrical quip, we’re sold; whether that be to Tillman’s devilishly alluring alter ego or Beelzebub himself we know not, nor do we care. Because rarely are the qualities of cynicism and crippling pessimism, if not outright atheism, made to seem quite so believable; I’d certainly sooner take a “Satanic Christmas Eve” over the evangelical kind this time around…

His is thus a slightly cultish presence, which perhaps explains why I entered the Empire with a slight cynicism this evening. Moreover, there are both illusions and delusions of grandeur innately located within the music itself – affected by retina-frazzling lighting, True Affection sounds stadium-ready already; there are no fewer than thirty strings on show at times (Only Son of the Ladiesman, for one), with no string ensemble in sight at any one – while the overwrought ‘thespionage’, whereby Father John reenacts the words from his many sermons, becomes quite cloying more or less instantly. Then, the reprehensible “irreverence” aforementioned makes itself manifest in his hurling an airborne Martin acoustic toward a roadie stage-right, and there seems to be something of a contradiction in his Messianic posturing never being more than a mere few seconds away from another gyration of his mic stand, swirling around it as though it were the sole, disinterested accomplice of a lonesome pole dancer. Is there absolutely no limit whatsoever to his general raffishness, though? Both rakish and rake-like, he must be, for many besides Emma, “the ideal husband.” (Even if, or maybe even because, he does stuff like stuffing his microphone down his trousers, having sung the final lines of said number; a rather phallic cable protruding from the top of his pants.)

But is he? Is he, or would he be, really ideal? Father John Misty, or the man seen onstage this evening, certainly seems more of a ladies’ man than a lady’s man among the exorcistic contortions and touching, or ruffling of tufty patches springing up from the enamoured in those formermost rows. “You love me?” he retorts to one of the many errant, Annie Lennox-vexing “I love you[s]” addressed directly, yet without direct addressee. Do they love the mythic Father John Misty, or the Dr. Jekyll-like mystery beyond, it must thus be posed? “You love me, even though there’s a massive disparity between my everyday ‘Thank you’, and my onstage ‘Thank you’?” He would, by his very own admission, “be a real asshole” if he went around dishing out the latter “after the most mundane interactions.” Although this, right here, is anything but mundane; “People are boring, but you’re something else completely” he’ll sing during Chateau Lobby #4 (in C for Two Virgins), he two seats away from me dotingly capturing the whole shebang on his iPhone for his wife at home, and Tillman – or this particular iteration thereof – is, as suggested by another neighbour, certainly “different.” Whether that be from his many bewhiskered, whisky-quaffing contemporaries, or quotidian mundanities, there is something – although to reiterate, I’m really not entirely sure what – to this…

We’re treated to all sorts – “toon[s] for young lovers” who’ve “met on the innernet just hours ago,” on top of “horrible little folk song[s]” and “tender ballad[s]” – in what is a pretty thoroughgoing performance. Indeed, it’s both thorough, and Tillman is most definitely going places; however, the adverbial modifier is most definitely necessary here, because all material is lifted from the oeuvre of Father John Misty, with that of J. Tillman neglected entirely. Elder, lesser Fear Fun numbers such as I’m Writing a Novel – during which the two chaps sat beside, rather than astride, me slap piston-ish thighs, and the Natalie Prass-like silent, smitten type to my right sits and stares on doe-eyed – and the roisterous Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings serve as a sort of midpoint between the two states, or personae. But ultimately, in spite of Tillman’s attempting to conceal his real, world-weary thoughts and feelings toward the world, what with I Love You, Honeybear having been juiced from the apple of his eye, it’s this record which is, arguably, best at exhibiting his true affections, afflictions and so forth.

Thus although a crepuscularly lit Funtimes in Babylon proves eminently lovely, every kick of the drum, or pedal to its malleable skin hitting with the potency of raw heartbreak, it’s the likes of the fantastically sardonic The Night Josh Tillman Came To Our Apt. and the superlative, pared-down I Went To the Store One Day which serve as the most convincing evidence to vindicate his skulking away from Fleet Foxes. Indeed, he very evidently ought to have gotten out from behind the kit, for Emma or otherwise, forever ago…

But ultimately, out front nowadays, Tillman may look like he relishes each and every second spent beneath the pulverising glare of beaming spotlights; nonetheless, there is a steadily intensifying feeling that Father John Misty is merely his way of putting a brave face on things. It is, seemingly, his way of disguising his anxieties, et cetera. And this seems to be reflected in I Love You, Honeybear, or the packaging thereof: for enwrapped within the Stacey Rozich artwork – artwork so iconic, that it’s been made into a soi-disant ‘all[-]over print sweatshirt’ – can be found photos from Mr. and Mrs. Tillman’s wedding day, similarly happy snaps in snappier suits, and so on. “We’re all terrified of the brotherhood of man” he admits at one point, echoing sentiments voiced during the surging, gorgeous When You’re Smiling and Astride Me, and this is especially true when such exhibitions are trustingly thrust out into the public domain. Thus if “life is essentially a pendulum that swings between suffering and boredom,” what better way to safeguard yourself against that, than to assume the identity of someone else altogether? Of course, this is in no way a new, nor even vaguely novel a concept; not least within the context of contemporary pop music. But the “massive disparity” between person and persona has obviously helped, rather than hindered Tillman’s songsmithery, ensuring such droll lyrics as, “My love, you’re the one I want to watch the ship go down with” aren’t quite so central to our attentions as they may be otherwise, amidst others concerning “mascara, blood, ash and cum/ On the Rorschach sheets where [they] make love”, or that same activity taking place, atrociously, “over the altar,” of all places.

Because if this should be the way in which Tillman best sees fit to “come into contact with some authentic self,” then need we so assiduously dissect the various successes of the record and, above and beyond that, Father John Misty? Rarely are such candid divulgences as, “What’s going on for, uh, what are you doing with your whole life/ How about forever?” so plainly, yet compellingly put to song; and so, suddenly, I Love You, Honeybear becomes the kind of record that can plausibly, if not probably change people’s lives, as it pertains to the inimitable intimacy of, for instance, a certain, one-kneed proposal. And, in an age in which emojis, mediated via “strange devices”, are more prevalent than emotions, there is a rare, if not rarefied sense of romanticism to the record. Reimagine all those samey, disastrously unremarkable wedding photos apparently prioritised on your Facebook News Feed, injected with genuine intensity and general interest, and set to some of the most mesmeric music committed to vinyl in years, and any scepticism disintegrates more or less immediately. At which point, Father John Misty seems less like an alter ego, and more a mere nom de plume, or mechanism of protection…

There is, furthermore, an eternal allure to the unobtainable; an age-old conundrum of the human condition. So Blondie’s face presumably lengthens because Tillman is, as she’s already well aware, “taken,” to all intents and purposes. There is then, additionally, the added bonus of his being “a decent person, just a little aimless.” Who wouldn’t want to rudder this ruddy charmer? And rarely, if ever is he more charming, than during Holy Shit; a song he wrote on his wedding day, no less. It begins with Tillman, spotlit as per, lamenting everything from “ancient holy wars [and] dead religions” to “holocausts, new regimes, [and] old ideas”, alone, before he’s joined by the band for a rousing denouement that’s evocative of the Bad Seeds reborn, the concluding lyric: “Oh, and love is just an institution based on human frailty/ What’s your paradise gotta do with Adam and Eve?/ Maybe love is just an economy based on resource scarcity/ What I fail to see is what that’s gotta do with you and me” worthy of Cave himself; the sort inspired by this self-professed “asshole” seeing his angel in bright white, satiny material, I can only presume.

There is this one moment, though, where the evening sours, and does so in quite dramatic fashion: following on from an anecdote, during which Tillman tells of a young girl – “probably a fuckin’ Muse fan,” he joshes – who’d drive around her office block interminably, because to enter into it made her feel “physically sick,” he doesn’t so much launch, as lumber into Bored In the USA. Overheard over a “vegan cheesecake” only this afternoon, this prelude may seem a perfectly apposite, episodic introduction to this slow-burning paean to a societal apathy that has spread like wildfire in recent times: “How many people rise and say, ‘My brain’s so awfully glad to be here for yet another mindless day/ Now I’ve got all morning to obsessively accrue a small nation of meaningful objects and they’ve gotta represent me too’?” the song begins, in fully disdainful style; but no sooner has it done so, than a brief fracas breaks out in Level 3. Punches are thrown, budding pugilists are thrown out, limbs dangle lifelessly from the balcony above whence tears teem, and the grittiness of grim reality duly returns. “A beautiful room for reconciliation” this may be, with its “romantic vantage[s]”, but any potential disparities between reality and the abundantly dystopian way in which Tillman witnesses the world are quashed within an instant, never to be reconciled; or not on this particular night, at least. Or at least, not quite…

However, with the song having eventually been restarted, Tillman suggesting such “reconciliation” take place out on “the sidewalk,” there are no Springsteenian knee slides; instead, plaintive keys ply this most despondent rendition with sorrow, woe and wonder concurrently. And, aside from the theatrical gesticulations that mar things somewhat, there is a piercing resonance to the single’s every word. The audience duly laughs as and whenever there would be raucous chuckling on record, before Tillman takes an iPhone – an emblem of modern-day ambivalence, needless to say – from the front row, avowing to “keep recording until all storage is jeopardised. And, then, you wont be able to take any footage of the Beach House show tomorrow.” That he seemingly does this exact same routine nightly would detract from the message that’s apparently being put across, were it not for the fact that it’s seemingly routine, or regularity, against which Tillman is, in part, rallying. “You can title that video, ‘Best five minutes of my life’” he mocks, returning the iPhone to its owner, with life and the near-death experiences suffered up in Level 3 thus coming together in the space of the one (necessarily elongated) song.

There is thus, and this goes against my every preconceived idea going into this evening, a true transcendence to be derived from it. It sounds clichéd of course, as are cries for Tillman to bless those beloved of him. (“Will I bless you? You do realise that, uh, why not? I would just need to go and get the innernet real quick, and get ordained”, his man-of-the-people reply.) But, terrifyingly intelligent and possessing of a pretty exemplary vocabulary, it’s little wonder that Tillman should have come to personify so prepossessing a character. Caricatured? That’s possibly a whole other argument altogether; one which, given the protracted nature of this particular Gospel on, rather than according to, Father John, I’ll leave for another time or, better still, another fledgling theologian. Two qualms do, and will, however, persist, sticking with me henceforth: the first is that, for all of the autobiographical feeling to have been poured so unsparingly into I Love You, Honeybear, this evening is rendered if not devoid, then removed from the intense sense of meaning intrinsic to, for instance, Sufjan Stevens’ recent shows at the Royal Festival Hall, and this is presumably made true by virtue of Tillman’s (at least nominal) removal from it all; the second is that, although Tillman is himself “terrified” by the modern-day individual’s loss of independent thought, there is something of an irony in so many flocking, maybe unthinking, to worship at this particular “altar”. Regardless, “the aimless, fake drifter and the horny, man-child, Mamma’s boy” done good, and there’s now one new believer in Father John Misty, or the cult thereof. And, prior to tonight, I probably thought my becoming a bona fide Jehovah’s Witness more probable…