Not much prepares you for Allen Stone‘s voice. Not his appearance, for sure. With the long wavy blonde hair of a Californian surfer, thick glasses and a fedora-like hat—the guy’s a hippie. But not just any old hippie, a self-proclaimed “hippie with soul”. Tonight, he’s softening up the Sugar Club, the perfect venue to sit back and enjoy Stone’s dulcet R&B tones. But it seems he has different plans. It’s all about the party man.

Stone hails from Washington where he sung in church choirs as a boy, eventually channeling his gospel training into classic soul. In a world where speculation is rife that guitar music is back, pop is over, nostalgia is in, metal is ignored—on walks a dude who looks like he should be smoking pot somewhere with Ty Segall, and sings like Stevie Wonder. Where does that fit in to the whole agenda?

It’s Stone’s second time in Ireland, and he’s immediately comfortable with the crowd as he makes his way through material from his self-released (and titled) sophomore album, as well as his debut ‘Last to Speak’. From the get-go, Stone’s intense enthusiasm for music spreads faster than a flame might do from a stray candle on the tables around the venue. And it kind of did, as there was no way the Sugar Club didn’t melt to a saccharine liquid listening to Allen’s voice. He talks to the audience like an encouraging coach, eager to get us excited about things. Just things in general, the music is a bonus.

The uplifting chorus of Celebrate Tonight has the crowd clapping and on their feet, the participation Stone seems over-eager for. But he gets it. He teaches the chorus of Say So to a willing few, while the funky bass a retro riffs back them up. By mixing the R&B falsettos of Prince and caramel tones of Stevie Wonder, with a Mick Jagger or Jay Kay stage presence—all executed with the charm of Timberlake—every aspect of Stone is impossible to dislike. Stretching every note to its limit, what can usually come across as self-indulgent fails to do so here.

Then there’s the laid-back moments, such as jolly version of Bed I Made. Transformed to a summery jingle, Stone sits plucking on guitar, swaying from side to side in the beat. The audience click along, with the shaky percussion behind him just adding to the hypnotic trance. Stone sings like his voice is too prepared for his mouth, his vocals effortlessly rolling off his tongue like the people in those badly lip-synced ads.

The funk-filled groves of Satisfaction riles up the crowd again, while the romantic bluesy haze of Unaware wraps up the show. The amazing falsetto chorus is textured with soulful harmonies from his band. Stone just keeps his eyes closed, nodding, before launching into a full-on high pitched falsetto that hits the ceiling and falls back down with ease. He high-fives a dancer in front of the stage and splits. Dude.

Allen recently said in an interview with CNN radio “I want people to focus on my music. I don’t want girls to come to my show because I poured a gallon of milk over my naked body in a music video.” There’s no indulging of the aesthetic with Stone, it’s just him, his guitar and his band. It’s grand, inoffensive—just a pure display of talent. He could do well to show himself off more as a showman if he wants to match the live experience with his pristine recordings, a feat not simply reached by coercing audience participation.

And so we leave the velvety warmth of the soul tones still bouncing around the Sugar Club, sand-steeped America, for the icy chill of Dublin outside. It’s like being grabbed from the fireside and thrown into a freezing lake. It’s like having a gallon of cold milk poured over your naked body in a balmy music video—nothing to aspire to.