This shouldn't work: a self-described "old fart" who can't sing and whose guitar playing is serviceable at best - and frequently pretty lousy.
Oh, and he fluffed the first song, had lost his voice at a show a few days before so was being cautious with the limited range he has, and a couple of times used the wrong harmonica.
Despite all that, Kris Kristofferson pulled off a show that was at times magical, often moving, and if it was sometimes mawkishly sentimental it was so engrossing that the capacity audience at the Civic listened in silence to that wobbly, weak singing before erupting in sustained applause at the end of every song.
If charisma could be moulded into human form it would look like this 70-year-old: tall, dignified, leonine silver-grey hair and a lived-in face.
His shortcomings as a singer-guitarist are also overlooked because of the power of his songs.
His classic songs of four decades ago even then had a reflective quality - Me and Bobby McGee, Sunday Morning Coming Down - which now, being delivered by a man who knows he is on limited time, have a pathos and humanity which feel all the more moving for the hard-won wisdom of the years.
After a gutsy and impressive set by Donald Reid, Kristofferson took the stage with just two guitars, some harmonicas and little else other than a catalogue of songs which touched the political (They Killed Him, some anti-war sentiments) and the personal (the final sincere but sentimental songs about his love for his kids and the audience which gave him a career).
With self-effacing humour, references to Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Sam Peckinpah and Janis Joplin (which reminded you of the stature he has and the company he kept), and a folksy manner in which he spoke of his daddy, Kristofferson charmed and entertained with stories in song and won a standing ovation.
Remarkable, especially from an old guy who can't really sing or is much cop at playing guitar.
<EM>Kris Kristofferson</EM> at the Civic
AdvertisementAdvertise with NZME.