Ryan Adams Live in Sydney: A Night of Heartbreak, Humour and Holy Chaos

Ryan Adams – Heartbreaker 25th Anniversary Tour –

Live at Darling Harbour Theatre, Sydney

Ryan Adams Live

Tonight’s set is a masterclass in emotional endurance and understated brilliance. Revisiting Heartbreaker clearly costs Ryan something — the weight of it hangs in the room — but he meets that weight with charm, dry humour, and just enough silliness to keep from sinking.

His voice, admittedly a little fragile, only adds to the intimacy. He paces himself, choosing feeling over force, and somehow makes the room feel like it’s holding its breath with him.

A beautiful kind of tension — raw, nostalgic, human.

The stage is set like a moody living-room séance, warm lamps of all shapes and sizes casting a soft glow over an upright piano, scattered guitars, and a single stool at centre stage. It’s stripped back, cinematic, and just dramatic enough to suggest you’re about to be emotionally ruined in the cosiest way possible.

The way this show is structured is a bit unusual for a concert. It’s more of an “Evening with…” type of performance. The first two hours are Heartbreaker songs minus ‘Come Pick Me Up’. Then there’s a short intermission where Ryan goes to the merch desk, signs things, and meets people. The second set is supposed to be hits and covers. We get covers — but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Performing Heartbreaker (an album he half-jokes, half-admits he doesn’t want to play) feels like watching someone read their own diary to a packed room of strangers. It’s raw, sad, stunning… and then suddenly — fart jokes.

Adams spends the night oscillating between emotional collapse and stand-up comedy. He cracks about showing up to his former booking agent’s house in a clown suit. Mocks himself as “a possible pyromaniac” who doesn’t play well with others. Talks openly about Ménière’s disease, his mom and dad (an English teacher and a redneck scientist), and his idolised grandfather who always made peace in his family during times of chaos.

He opens the set with ‘To Be Young (Is to Be Sad, Is to Be High)’. Then he lands something like ‘Winding Wheel’ and it wrecks the room — I don’t know if he sees that or not. It wrecks me in just three chords. And as unexpected as it is, he breaks out into ‘Smelly Cat’ — in the best tradition of Friends.

‘Why Do They Leave?’ makes me emotional — it always does. But Ryan makes it bearable by weaving a string of jokes into the tapestry of this Heartbreaker set because of the heaviness of these songs (or so it makes me feel).

He calls out late arrivals, jokingly. Comments on people walking out mid-set. Gently berates phone-checkers. At one point, he dives into the crowd and gives us a quick and surreal rendition of ‘Smooth’ by Santana and Rob Thomas because someone once thought he was Rob Thomas. “None of my business,” he mutters, with just the right amount of smirk.

“Why do you even listen to this depressing stuff? It’s the most depressing album. You listen to this shit and then you complain that you can’t get out of bed until after Matlock,” he asks the crowd — but the answer is obvious: because no one else does this like him.

‘In My Time of Need’ on the piano sounds wonderful, and before playing ‘Oh My Sweet Carolina’ Ryan very emotionally speaks about his brother Chris and his passing in October 2017 — and how he would be disappointed seeing Scorpions live now. It’s sad, but endearing.

In the second set, Ryan talks up Impressed Recordings and passes a goodie bag to a young fan in the front row. It’s very sweet of him despite all the cussing. He plays ‘Shining Through the Dark’ from 2012 Star Sign and ‘Two’ from Easy Tiger.

There are moments where he seems on the verge of losing it completely — ‘Don’t Ask for Water’, the devastating piano ballad ‘In My Time of Need’, and a ghostly INXS cover of ‘Never Tear Us Apart’. He interacts with the crowd constantly: after playing ‘Over the Rainbow’ on piano — “Did you just meow me, bro?” he asks, straight-faced. The people in the crowd laugh, some cry, and a lot get very drunk.

There are Neil Finn jokes. Keith Urban jokes. A lot of the banter mentions a strange-looking, guitar-selling USA infomercial guy named Esteban — and something about Bryan Adams wearing white. His voice is fragile but honest, like something that might break if you look at it wrong — and all the more powerful because of it.

Ryan Adams live

He asks, “Why is this my job?” and replies to himself, “God, kill me now,” in the same breath that he talks about one of Keith Urban’s daughters cutting holes in all his T-shirts. He asks the crowd to put him out of his misery if he ever uses an emoji instead of a song title. (That’s fair — I’d be embarrassed to death to do that too.)

Ryan takes off his shirt on a dare mid-set and borrows sunglasses from an audience member. The chemistry between the stage and the crowd is off the charts.

By the time he sings ‘Sweet Carolina’, it’s clear: we’re not watching a polished performance — we’re witnessing a man unfiltered, slightly unhinged, and completely unforgettable.

Ryan ends the second set with a cover of The Smiths’ ‘That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore’ — and it’s not just a cover, it’s a quiet exorcism. Stripped of pretence, he gives the song space to ache, letting each line land like it’s been waiting for this room, this moment, this version. His voice, worn in all the right ways, lingers on the last note like a sigh — and that’s it.

The lights snap on and out he comes — grinning, arms open, coaxing the crowd to dance, wave, snap photos, forget the weight for a minute. Despite the noise online, despite the bruised intimacy of Heartbreaker, this tour is something rare. Put the trolling aside. What’s left is a man who, somehow, writes like a gothic poet trapped in the body of a southern rock troubadour. It’s vulnerable. It’s strange. It’s funny. And it’s absolutely worth witnessing.

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