Concert Review: Father John Misty shows Brown’s Island crowd what it’s like to feel

Father John Misty was on Brown’s Island on Friday, but it wasn’t full. Behind the sea of people surrounding the stage, most people were sitting down, with others lying in the grass, taking in the perfectly clear skies and 70 degree temperatures.

It felt right to be sitting in a lawn chair at the show. With his intimate musical style, his silky vocals, his gentle, nostalgia-inducing guitar strums, he could pull anyone in within a mile of him.

Father John Misty was chosen as a nod to his strict Christian upbringing and his brief consideration of becoming a minister. His live shows still feel like a religious experience despite him changing his mind.

He kicked off the night with his fan favorite, “I Love You, Honeybear,” which was a four-and-a-half minute track. It’s easy to notice how much he loves what he’s doing, he dances like he’s at home with his wife, swaying back and forth, wrapping his arms around the back of his head. The world feels peaceful as he sings over the bouncy guitar riffs.

There was a song about the death of a fictional cat. Father John Misty asked the crowd if they had lost a pet before he started the track. He said, “From my mouth to God’s ears, this one is for Guinness.” He ripped it in half.

His voice runs like honey down a biscuit, it’s like he was made for that. His subtle hums between each verse feel like a brain massage, and as he begs his ex that the cat they bought together dying is a sign they should connect, you find yourself cheering for him. His lighting display, which changed colors with each song, wasn’t present. He blew his chance here.

Father John Misty’s work can’t be compared to anything else. There is a track about a budding writer and her publishing house’s financial state during the last quarter of the year. He gives you details but doesn’t make it seem like it’s too much. He makes you feel like you’re flying. It is easy to get lost in the story and then get pulled back to reality. If all his studio recordings were one-and-dones, it wouldn’t be a big deal.

The crowd could sense that Father John was having fun. He didn’t mind sweating through the white shirt beneath his black jacket, he didn’t care about crinkling up his jacket. He didn’t say much between songs because he was too focused on his craft, but he left everything and then some on that stage, and it should have been.