The joy of Chris Stapleton

Chris Stapleton is a barrel-chested man of 46, who hides his face beneath a beard that must have taken years to grow, hair that tumbles down past his shoulders and a hat that could probably accommodate rather more than ten gallons. He sings songs about being imperfect, with a band behind him making a sound that one might have heard in 1972. He is so purely, absolutely and definitely American he might as well have petrol for blood and ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ on a permanent loop in his head.

Stapleton is so purely, absolutely and definitely American he might as well have petrol for blood

Still, 40,000 people came to the O2 over two nights in London, and not just 40,000 people who remembered 1972 first time round – young couples, girls dressed up in pink cowboy hats, tattooed lads. Even in these confusing times when country music has become cool in the UK – something I wrote about in these pages earlier this year – it came as a surprise to see the make-up of the crowd for this show, one entirely free of big production, with none of the strange genre crossovers into modern forms that have made stars of other country singers.

At one level, Stapleton’s success is very easy to explain. Over the course of more than two hours on stage – with minimal audience interaction, and no showmanship – he played an awful lot of very, very good songs. And he has a voice so wonderful you could bathe in it: rich and deep and smoky and warm and compassionate. He’s not a twangy country singer in the Appalachian style – nasal and keening – he’s more of a soul singer who happened to have been born into country.