“Welcome to show seventeen on the Misery, Desperation and Retirement Tour,” grins Rod Picott early on. It’s a typical slice of self-deprecating humour from the Nashville native — funny, raw, and entirely rooted in truth. After more than two decades on the road, this really is the end of the line. When he says this is the last chance to see him play live, there’s a bittersweet finality to it.
He opens with “Digging Ditches,” a song that perfectly captures his world — hard work, hard luck, and hard truths. “Next Man in Line” follows, before “A Puncher’s Chance,” co-written with screenwriter and long-time fan Brian Koppelman, gives him the opportunity to launch the first of many stories — wry, self-aware and always authentic.
Few songwriters can blur the line between storyteller and songwriter as naturally as Picott does.
“Revenuer” appears early too, and it’s a real highlight — a dark, pulsing piece that shows his gift for narrative detail and character. Every verse feels like a short story in itself, played out with grit and conviction.
Picott is a natural raconteur. Between songs, he’s warm, funny, and disarmingly open — sharing tales about terrible gigs, strange audiences across Europe, and his father with the same quiet tenderness he gives his lyrics.
There’s a well-worn charm to it all, the feeling that every anecdote adds to the context.
From there, the two set show unfolds like a love letter to his own past. “Mona Lisa,” “Angels and Acrobats,” and “Trouble Girl” are all given tender, readings, each one delivered with that road-worn rasp that makes every word believable. “Elbow Grease” and “Welding Burns” hit with the weary beauty that’s defined his career.
Towards the end, “Where No One Knows My Name” stands out — an understated, quietly devastating moment that captures everything Picott has always done best: the loneliness, the resilience, and the poetry of the overlooked, while “River Runs” feels like the most fitting of farewells.
He returns for an encore, closing with a beautifully loose version of Bob Dylan’s “I Want You,” dedicated to his girlfriend — who, he laughs, is probably sitting in an airport bar waiting to join him on the road tomorrow.
At just past sixty, Picott reflects that leaving behind a life hanging plasterboard for one chasing songs was the best decision he ever made. “Playing to people,” he says, “is a hell of a lot better than hanging plaster.” You believe him completely.
Rod Picott may not have filled arenas, but for three decades he’s filled rooms — and hearts — with stories that cut right to the bone. If this really is the end, it’s a master craftsman signing off in style, and a genuinely lovely, warm way to finish.
