The first night of a tour can go either way—nervy and uneven or full of spark. BC Camplight’s show at Electric Bristol landed firmly in the latter.
The Manchester-based songwriter (real name Brian Christinzio) launched his tour in support of A Sober Conversation—his best album yet and one of this year’s standouts—with a new band, a new visual setup, and the same chaotic charm that has cemented his cult status.
Christinzio kicked off with the album’s brooding “The Tent,” a slow-burning opener that let the band find its footing and drew the crowd in. The venue wasn’t packed, but that worked in its favour; the extra space gave everything a looser, more personal feel. BC Camplight has a rare gift for making closeness feel natural; his songs are so personal they almost insist on it.
Once the show found its rhythm, Christinzio’s voice—soaring from bruised baritone to pure falsetto—flooded the room, while the band added color and weight to every track. Few artists can make pain, addiction, and heartbreak feel this vivid—or this funny.
Between songs, he was completely at ease, cracking jokes, sharing snippets of his chaotic history, and laughing with the crowd. When someone up front requested “Atom Bomb” from 2015’s How to Die in the North, Christinzio obliged, delivering it solo at the piano. It was a quietly devastating moment, one of several that night reminding everyone why he’s so adored.
The 15-song set was perfectly pitched for a Thursday evening—generous without dragging, emotional without wallowing. New material from A Sober Conversation blended seamlessly with older favorites, from the oddball groove of “Two-Legged Dog” to the widescreen melancholy that has become his trademark. It was a piano-led show brimming with humour and humanity, a refreshing departure from the usual four-lads-and-a-guitar setup so often seen around these parts.
I once described BC Camplight’s sound to friends unfamiliar with his work as “a depressed Elton John with a dash of The Beach Boys.” It wasn’t a dig, just an attempt to capture the mix of big-hearted songwriting, technicolour arrangements, and glorious vocal melodies that define his music. Live, that comparison feels even more accurate: the pop instinct is always present, but so are the ache, the humour, and the messy humanity that make his songs hit home.
Then came the encore, which he joked he almost never does. “The Last Rotation of Earth,” from his previous album of the same name, served as a stark reminder of the emotional wreckage that record documented. While Last Rotation wrestled with heartbreak and collapse, A Sober Conversation feels like its answer: the sound of someone piecing themselves back together, finding flashes of hope amid the bruises.
That sense of renewal carried into “Blood and Peanut Butter,” a song now two decades old and one Christinzio has largely disowned because of the painful memories tied to its creation. Hearing it live felt like witnessing a quiet reconciliation—tender, hesitant, but brave. The crowd seemed to understand, offering subdued support before the band carried him into “A Sober Conversation,” the title track and closing number.
“A Sober Conversation” was a perfect finale: funny, energetic, and full of light. Its blend of confession and madness captured the evening entirely; it was a show about survival, second chances, and learning to laugh at the chaos.
It felt less like a performance and more like catching up with an old friend—someone who’s been through it, comes out swinging, and still makes you laugh between songs about falling apart. No distance, no pedestal, just warmth, laughter, and a stack of brilliant tunes. The sort of night that leaves you walking out smiling, glad you got to share the room.