On Live at Carnegie Hall, we benefit from an extra-concentrated dose of Cameron Winter

“Nepo babies” whose “fans are all bots,” people mock, while the New York quartet just get on with the business of touring, selling out venues around the world.

And while it's true that the mathy art-rock of Getting Killed turned a lot of heads at indie music’s top table, Geese remain a punchy enough band to hit beyond the hype, elevated by their magnetic, borderline hypnotic singer. In short, it’s all about the nihilistic hunk at the front. For me at least, Geese's innovation, and certainly their intrigue, comes almost solely from Cameron Winter's quivering baritone – a voice capable of emulating the wavy vibrato of an accordion or a harmonium – as well as his abstract songwriting and wicked sense of humour.

From that viewpoint, logic would dictate that the less diluted his presence is on a record, the better. If he is so transformative for Geese, there must be a pure brilliance to him on his own. This rang true on his sublime solo debut, 2024’s chamber-folk opus Heavy Metal, which continues to age like the finest of wines. But as the 24-year-old arrives with his second major solo release, a live double album of just voice and piano, recorded last December, does this goose on the loose stick the landing?

In simple terms, yes. It might have been shot on grainy, 16mm film, but Live at Carnegie Hall captures Cameron Winter’s brilliance in sharper definition than ever before. In a rapt auditorium where there are no distractions, his singularity as a performer and songwriter benefits from being placed under one bright spotlight. Every brawler, bawler, and bastard in his repertoire has a sense of magic to it.

Winter is remarkably effective at infecting his audience with the same erratic emotional maelstrom that consumes him. The head-rush of “Love Takes Miles” remains delightfully dizzy when stripped back here, while the tempestuous noir of “Drinking Age” sees Winter successfully drag the whole theatre into his dark place with him.

Sincerity has always been called into question with his solo work. Is Winter for real, or is this all (at least a bit of) a joke to him? The “I’m not kidding this time / God is actually real” refrain of “$0” especially invites that question, as does new one “Emperor XI in Shades”, in which he croons, “I don’t like what they did to Jesus / But I sure like Saturday morning.” Here, though, alone and hunched over the Steinway grand, every word hits true as though it is golden gospel. As he kneads the piano, speeding up and slowing down as the emotion dictates – channelling, above all other influences, Laura Nyro at her volcanic best – irony and sarcasm vanish in favour of absolute, gut-wrenching feeling.

Winter is luminous throughout. Incandescent, even. The other new songs “It All Fell in the River” and “If You Turn Back Now” fit seamlessly into his repertoire as tilted power ballads, with emphasis on the power. There's no need for awkward stage patter here. Winter operates on the thesis that if the music – the performances, the new piano arrangements, the songwriting – is good enough, then it can soar completely autonomously. It is, of course, aided by the air of pomp and circumstance that surrounds the whole affair. Winter is, after all, one of the youngest solo artists ever to headline a show in the iconic concert hall’s main auditorium, and the accompanying film by Paul Thomas Anderson and Benny Safdie is certainly a statement.

There's no denying that the rollout for Live at Carnegie Hall has been made into a real event, the Geesemania – the Wintermania, whatever it is – is too impatient and fervent to withstand the arcane traditions of a two-year album cycle. Winter is treated with a reverence we rightly, or most probably wrongly, simply stopped giving young musicians decades ago. On the evidence presented here, you can’t say that he doesn’t deserve it.