15/03/2026

Iron & Wine – The Powerstation: March 14, 2026 (13th Floor Concert Review)

Spotify is an interesting barometer of an artist’s career. For Sam Beam–Iron & Wine–the song with the most streams on Spotify is Flightless Bird, American Mouth, with many hundreds of millions of streams.

The next-most streamed song trails this by over sixty-six million. If you were there during the late-2000s Twilight mania, you’d know that Flightless Bird, American Mouth underscored Bella and Edward’s swoony, fairy-lit rotunda prom dance scene. It changed Beam’s life, and (among other things) signalled the induction of an underground sub-culture into the pop-culture. Or as described with some disdain by others, the gentrification of freak-folk and proliferation of twee.

Indeed, it sounded more palatable than Iron & Wine’s early work: the iconoclastic low-fidelity of a tape recorder on the breakfast table, haunted narratives of conversations with a mother whose baby had drowned or the wistful account of an eternal, hand-in-hand walk beside a slow black river. Underlined by the fact that he was barely singing, just whispering in your ear. But to me, music production is like clothing for songs, and I suspect that the songs under those layers of clothing have never lost the initial intent of Iron & Wine, the recording artist.

A suspicion that, for me, was confirmed last night by Iron & Wine, the performing artist. A good song is a good song, no matter how it’s presented. And Beam’s decision to present his songs in the most bare-bones way possible–with just his voice and guitar–was almost bragging.

Leah Senior

Powerstation was packed last night. The crowd–a mix of millennials and baby boomers–were first greeted by Leah Senior, Australian folk artist, to kick off the show. Leah played solo, accompanying herself on guitar and later on the piano. Her gentle and funny nature was welcome, and accentuated by simple, earnest melodies and stop-start guitar picking.

Iron & Wine

Then the man of the hour emerged from the hazy backstage darkness looking like some sage. Blazer dark, beard heavy, forehead high, hair up. Immediately, he exhibited a light-hearted, funny temperament that belies his somewhat Southern Gothic aesthetic in promo shots.

And the banter never stopped, often appearing mid-way through songs in the most delightful ways. He marvelled that the last time he played in New Zealand was at the very same venue, eighteen years ago to the day. Apologizing humorously for the new songs he was to play during the show, he declared that he was to play new songs, old songs, and “in-between songs”. Perhaps as a bit of fan service to open the show, he began with an alternative rendition of Such Great Heights. In fact, he played many of his classics in completely new ways, such that the audience were largely incapable of singing along. I can appreciate the want to keep things fresh, but at the same time, after eighteen years, maybe New Zealanders were looking forward to singing along with Iron & Wine.

I was thrilled with how Beam, on his own, could make his songs resonate so enormously. His performance was effortlessly dynamic and tuneful. The vocal phrasing, even if presented in an alternate form from the studio recordings and semi-improvised, was conversational but rhythmic, and was a testament to his brilliant lyricism.

He could fit so many words into one breath while maintaining the utmost clarity. The guitar phrasing was also impressive. Often percussive, embellished with emotive licks and frills. Also often delicate and poignant. The latter was potently paired with restrained vocals that became transcendent when notes were held long and layered with echo. These moments had the audience listening with bated breath. I mentioned that the venue was packed–and Powerstation can contain about a thousand bodies–but we were mostly silent during songs (when Beam wasn’t teasing and bantering with us). The songs quietly commanded our collective affection. The songs are that intimate, and the performance did nothing to betray that fact.

If anything, their intimacy was enhanced by the live setting, especially so by the solo nature of the performance. We shared space with the creator of this music and no-one else. Sam was comfortable enough to be seated before us (in a gothic-looking chair) like he was over for dinner. When he said goodnight and left us, none of us moved from our places. When we coaxed him back on stage for an encore, he played Flightless Bird, American Mouth, and permitted us to sing it with him in the regular fashion. Except it wasn’t quite regular: it was, for the most part, a capella. Gentle, pristine falsetto. When he finished, all of us wanted to let those final notes linger in the air for a silent second before applauding.

Sam Beam and his wife have five daughters. A promotional photo depicts a stoic-looking Beam surrounded by who I imagine are his girls. They stand bare-footed upon his shoulders and on the branches of the skeletal tree behind him. The image seems befitting of the character portrayed by the artist’s music: a rural, backbone figure, venerated by his own. He grabs the antique steel string from where it leans in the corner to tell us a story, and Auckland’s Powerstation becomes a South Carolina farmhouse. Gather ‘round, and I’ll tell you about the time the trees were blown bare in the bone-white snow, the night the dog had her pups in the pantry, the day the creek drank the cradle.

Luke Grbin

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