How can an artist obtain complete interaction from its audience? An almost idealistic space that removes boundaries between traditionally opposing sides? Recently, the underbelly of LEAF Manchester saw the genesis of a charity gig designed to tackle these questions. To create a recurring event and yet-to-be-founded community that promotes the freedom to talk about difficult personal subjects, most prominently those affected by mental health.

When creators Dan Wright and Spencer Mason played a gig months prior, they unravelled the personal tales and tribulations behind the songs they brought with them. But, the audience before them felt jarred by such an unusual level of admittance, and didn’t respond with a wholly supportive reaction, prompting the two members of spoken word band “Incarnate.” to create a night exactly around those revealing moments and stories.

In a string of unorthodox ideas implemented, phones were banned from the gig, a ruling that has also been executed by many high-profile creatives from Dave Chappelle to Jack White, and many tell of the attention it forces. On top of the music, this removal of distraction also heightens their awareness of their surroundings, which, in Dan and Spencer’s case, was crucial. After each set, the audience left the performance space to return to a new setup and experience to compliment its artist, at least in theory. This wait time allowed for crowd members to connect with each other as well as the artists, with side pieces such as a box for them to write as they wish, and personalised poems given to the first 15 audience members that walked through the doors.

It’s refreshing to hear of a gig that celebrates the struggles that we, as humans, universally relate to, where artists and crowd members are free to speak their mind without fear of unwelcome arms. All four performers were instructed not to worry about judgement, no topic was out of bounds, and evidence of this could be found in between songs, as each performer spoke about drug abuse, emotional entrapment, death and suicide and mental disorders. As the night went on, it became clear that what the creators were aiming for was more than simple entertainment; the uniquely close connection that the audience were tethering themselves to could feel uncomfortable at first. At times, it felt not just intimate but private - similar to Mount Eerie’s A Crow Looked At Me, a grievous album that followed project figurehead Phil Elverum as he counted the days and weeks since his wife passed away. Like that LP, this event brought harsh bouts of negative emotions, to the point where one may not come for entertainment purposes, but for a deeper emotional reason. Yet the difference is that here, there is a resolution, a sense of newfound fulfillment from witnessing and partaking in a journey into the depths of these artists’ darkest times.

As opening artist Bethany Millow began to perform, the room around her permitted only slithers of light to enter, by way of fairy lights and a lava lamp. It painted the moodiness of her songs but the innocence of her character, only her voice and a nylon guitar in arsenal. Choosing simple guitar ballads added to the immersion factor of it all, it echoed through the visible brick walls of the venue like we were there when she wrote it. Despite seats laid out like a church sermon or school assembly, the crowd was initially unreceptive, and it showed in how twitchy and anxious she appeared to be in the preluding talks between tracks. Throughout, her lyrics took center stage, while her guitar provided a tone-setting instrumental backing that could have been more varied and developed from simple chords, in order to further propel her songwriting. Nevertheless, the nervous energy that held everyone scurried away by the last song, which played like a dark lullaby that diffused the already-lowered tension with her cutting vocals.

The end of the first break brought Gabriel Leath-Yates, and the first change of setting, which was a far cry from the “new world” that was promised - it was nearer to just a new time of day. Musically, the setup was equally as similar to the first act, unfurling more acoustic ballads that took a strolling pace. Calling back to the beckoning echoes of Bethany’s set, Gabriel exerted much more vocal horsepower, marking a real focal point of his overall performance. Moreover, his husky tone softened the intensity of the atmosphere, whilst never ungrappling the audience’s attention by the scruff of the neck. To close his set on a lighter note, he ushered on a backing singer and cajon drummer to bring a spare moment of calmness for the first instance of the night.

Singer-songwriter duo Mullhouse was up next and, to add their flair to the staging, adopt mannequins filled with tormented words and drawings scrawled across. Presented in a now-familiar gloomy frame, it helps to backdrop lead singer Ben Stott’s vocal tremors as he sends the first song off with “I’m fucking scared when I’m alone”. However, for the most part his singing style hardly benefits the performance, instead deflecting from the drama each track could potentially have with a lazily-drawled voice. Instrumentally, the band progressed the entire gig forward with just the addition of a second, twickling guitar that accented the otherwise bare-bones affair. Furthermore, the strongest moment from their set came when the other half of the band, Charlie King, spoke of his experiences with depression, specifically the boredom that comes with the cyclical nature of being depressed. Credit has to be given to how he tackled an aspect of mental health that is often left out in the cold, only showing further proof of the importance of a night like this - to understand and learn from the insights into these artists, and this sentiment carried forward into the final act of the night.

Incarnate. switched the flavour of the gig immediately, with downtempo alt-rock that incorporated a full band, replete with glazed guitars and drums. As the first track unhinged the room, frontman Spencer Mason’s vocals bellowed with the spirit of grunge singers of the past, particularly Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain. In fact, the setup of rugs, flowers and candles was not unlike Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged performance from ‘93. Musically, however, Incarnate. dodged the acoustic touch showcased so far, breaking the established intimacy. Many moments aim to thrill, like in the apex of the second song - where each element gathers pace and power, swelling to an Everest peak before fading into a haunting acapella ending - or the fervent rap verse on the admittedly-disjointed third cut. This interjection of spoken word also transferred on the concluding track, with Spencer starting and intervening with a poem recitation about the judgement of others that provoked thought across many faces in the crowd. A standing ovation from the audience bookended the finale, spurring two further encores that got people on their feet dancing - it felt like a collective release of tension and pain, a brief escape from hardship.

The premise of Time to Talk is an idea with lofty but attainable ambition, and on its first swing of the bat, it pulled through with a few misfires. The last two set changes were far more dramatic than the first two, but even still, more could have been done to fully realise the concept of changing the stage and atmosphere for every set. The projector screen that was right behind them throughout could have brought their imagery to life, but as a class photo of the bands and audience sealed the gig in memory, it was evident that its creators have stumbled onto something potentially great.