A bit of a pilgrimage for me this week. As I’ve written before on this blog, I grew up on the outskirts of London, meaning that my ‘local’ gig venues included all the prestigious London ones. By far my favourite, and the one that I probably saw the most gigs at, was Hammersmith Odeon (I know it’s been the Apollo since sometime in the 1990s, but it will always be Hammersmith Odeon to me.)

I’ve seen some great shows at Hammersmith Odeon, including  John Lee Hooker, Ry Cooder and David Lindley, Hothouse Flowers, and, er, Chris de Burgh, but I’ve never seen a stranger gig than the one I attended this week, to see the walking contradiction that is Ryan Adams.

Adams has had a scattergun approach to his recorded output, switching styles between albums, occasionally re-recording a song-by-song recreation of an entire album by other artists – respectively Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and Taylor Swift, so far. His back catalogue, as you might imagine, is one of vastly mixed quality. At one point in Dead Man Singing, one of the characters argues that we should judge artists by their best work, and on that criteria at least, Adams is up there with the best.

He’s experienced his fair share of controversy too, with a complex personal and professional life that has sometimes merged, and seen allegations made against him during the height of the ‘me too’ movement. As far as anyone outside the situations can tell, he is far from blameless although he has since seemingly owned up to his misdeeds, making public apologies for them. Without dismissing or deminishing the accusations against him, it's a shame that any consideration of his career now has to include an acknowledgement of that. There's a discussion to be had about where we draw the line between the art and the artist, but that can wait for another time.

This gig summed up the contradictions of such a deeply complicated man. Celebrating the 25th anniversary of his (excellent) solo debut album Heartbreaker, the first half of the set was made up entirely of songs from it, although Adams played most of them without additional accompaniment beyond his own guitar and harmonica, or occasional piano. A couple of songs featured a drummer and a bass guitarist, although the distortion-heavy proto-grunge wasn’t really to my taste.

Adams’ between song patter was equally confusing. At times his interaction with his audience displayed a vulnerable, sensitive soul who seemed genuinely repentant for past misdeeds, and who had reaped a precious harvest of wisdom as a result. At other times, it was as if Grandpa Simpson had been handed a microphone and told to ramble away to his heart’s content, sometimes for ten minutes at an incomprehensible time. More than once, he finally started up the opening chords of the next number, only to think of something else and continue his meandering for several minutes more. On at least two occasions he stepped away from the microphone and started talking to the audience, blithely unaware that no one beyond the first few rows could hear anything he was saying.

But when he finally started to play, oh the magic of it. Not every song hit the spot - his piano-based reworking of New York, New York from his 2001 album Gold had me yearning for him to play it again on guitar - but when he got it right, he was magnificent. My Winding Wheel was an early high-point, while Oh My Sweet Carolina, When the Stars Go Blue and the Dylan cover Not Dark Yet, to name but three, were every bit as good.

At the start of the gig, he reminded the audience not to take photos, explaining that flash photography could be triggering for people with certain medical conditions (Adams himself suffers with Meniere’s Disease), a perfectly reasonable request. The second half of the show began with the same reminder, but subsequently finished with twin spotlights directed at a glitterball above the stage, creating a cascade of starlight around Adams, as well as occasionally flaring uncomfortably in the eyes of the audience as the ball turned. From my seat in the circle, it was necessary to shield my eyes to make looking at the stage remotely comfortable, so it must have been hellish for anyone suffering from any of the relevant conditions. Nevertheless, that last number, Come Pick Me Up was a final highlight, a beautiful, heartfelt song which pulsed with pain and yearning as Adams performed it immaculately. Once he had finished, he stepped back from his microphone and promptly fell backwards over the drum kit. It somehow summed up the night. Arguably the weirdest gig I’ve ever been to, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.