photos by Samantha Schraub @samcsch

Tom Odell graced the grandeur of Webster Hall last Monday with a serenade that combined the ethereal with the grounded, otherworldly yet intimate. Thirteen years into his career, Odell has refined his rare ability to transform a packed venue into something else entirely. For an hour and a half, Webster Hall wasn’t just a concert space; it became an elegant ballroom, a place that invited you to sway, breathe slower, to let his airy melodies pull you under.

When I first saw Odell’s name appear in my inbox, I was instantly carried back to 2013, when I fell into his debut album Long Way Down. The title track, in particular, caught me at a dark point in my life. It wasn’t just a song; it was a mirror. His words put shape to things I couldn’t articulate, and because of that, the record stayed with me throughout the years. I didn’t dig further into his catalog at the time – something I now regret – but those early songs never left. That’s the kind of writing Odell is renowned for: vulnerable, heart-wrenching, and explicitly honest. His songs follow you for years because they speak directly to what it means to endure, to heal, to come out on the other side. Even when you’ve moved past those darker chapters, the music reminds you of how far you’ve come. For some, his work may feel too heavy, but for those who connect, there’s comfort in knowing you’re not alone in those thoughts. That’s the gift of Odell’s music: it walks with you through the roughest nights and quietly guides you toward the light.

Meandering into this performance, I hadn’t investigated much with his newer material, but I knew he would leave an impression, and, for me, the best live moments are procured by surprise. I’ve seen plenty of great shows this year, but Tom Odell live in Manhattan easily stands out as one of the best – and will stay there when I look back at this year as a whole. The crowd leaned older than I’d expected, but it made sense the more I conceptualized. His writing isn’t flashy pop built for virality; it’s layered, metaphor-driven storytelling. It resonates with listeners who crave depth and don’t need the noise. That in itself is special. It isn’t fast food pop; it’s a slow-cooked confessional that requires patience, and maybe even a little weathering of life, to fully taste. The songs carry themselves, no spectacle required.

The production was stripped back, but it never felt lacking. His band elevated the performance when called upon, yet most of the night it was just Odell, his piano, and the weight of the silence between notes. Early in the set, he explained that this show was deeply meaningful for him, and that he didn’t want to speak too much; he wanted to let the music hold the space. And it did. Every track felt lived-in, personal. You could see how much of himself he pours into the work with each lyric that left his lips. It enhances the sentiment I’ve always believed: music doesn’t fully exist until it’s played live. And in that moment, Odell proved it.

The audience reflected that magic back to him. Couples held each other close, friends clutched one another in long embraces, and tears quietly streaked down cheeks in the dim light. You could feel how much these songs had meant to people over the years. They weren’t just fans; they were participants in something bigger. And when the crowd’s voices wove together in a chorus of “I think today is the best day of my life” during “Best Day of My Life,” chills ran down my arms. For a British artist who doesn’t make it to the States often, that line carried extra weight. It was a collective realization: we’d all been waiting years for this one moment, Odell’s return after two years off the road.

Jade Bird‘s return for a duet only heighted the atmosphere. Their voices wrapped around each other, rough edges and smooth lines intertwining into something almost out-of-body. And when the violin entered, it felt like a whine accompanying our silent cries: aching, reflecting, carrying the emotion even further.

Odell doesn’t need flash, and truthfully, flash would be a betrayal. His music isn’t meant to be dressed up. It is meant to be felt, raw and unadorned. Behind the paino is where he belongs, and where his songs bleed openly. The arrangements carried us through emotions we often try to keep buried, and the lyrics gave voice to thoughts we don’t always admit to ourselves. By the end of the night, it felt like we had finally found our wings to fly. We stepped out onto the cracked cement lighter, changed, aware we’d been part of an experience that cannot be replicated. Until Odell returns, his words live with us – scribbled in our journals, echoing in our playlists, stitched in our lives.

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