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During the last song of Father John Misty's set on Sept. 23, “Date Night,” the artist (whose real name is Joshua Tillman) hop-skipped towards the audience at the Leader Bank Pavilion, microphone in hand.

“Nothing impresses me much. I've got a great attitude,” he sang, holding the last syllable for a few seconds. His hands were in fists, parallel to his shoulders, his hips moving back and forth. He was fluid then, moving around the stage, as no instrument kept him in place. It was just him and his smooth voice.

Tillman knew his voice was good. It was evident by how he filled the space between the verses with “oooooohss” and “hmmmms” that choraled. The back-up band was just that: backing. Every peep from the clarinet, every low bass line, was there to make his voice sail across any venue on his sixth month tour promoting his new album, “Chloe and the Next 20th Century.”

The purely supportive nature of Tillman’s band made sense. The lyrics of his songs are what make Joshua Tillman Father John Misty. To listen truly to Father John Misty is to laugh out loud at the obscurity of the scenarios, the wit of the details, and the embarrassing arrogance shown by the characters he creates in his lyrics. He sings openly about death and sex in a sarcastic tone to make fun of people who think they are above it all. It could be offensive to anyone with a lesser sense of humor.

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“You kiss on me. But we should let this dead guy sleep,” he sang in the third song of the set, called “Hollywood Forever Cemetery,” about hooking up with a woman in a cemetery. He held an acoustic guitar standing against a red-lit background.

Despite the fact that most of his songs are in comedic tone, he didn’t smile once during the performance. For example, he sang the popular song “Ballad of the Dying Man” with a deadpan expression. “Eventually the dying man takes his final breath, but first he checks his news feed to see what he’s ‘bout to miss.”

The straight face didn't mean he was emotionless though; he closed his eyes to hold long notes, feeling every word he sang. His previously iconic shoulder-length hair was cropped, and he dressed simply. Maybe this false seriousness adds to the character. His black blazer and trousers, his buzz cut (a new look to accompany the new album), it directly contrasted with his sharp, fluid movements and his wacky lyrics.

The opening act, the mystical and dramatic Suki Waterhouse, tried her best to prepare the audience for the show they'd be getting as she thanked him near the end of her set.

“He’s Father,” she said. “He’s just Father. I can’t explain it.”

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Only about a third of the full audience was there for Suki’s set. The rest truly missed out. The stage did feel almost too large for her four-person band. It would have been nice to see her in a more intimate venue, like a dark bar, vibing to her music that brings that eerie peace of impending doom (think Beach House’s “Space Song,” or Mazzy Star). But the wind at the outdoor stage blew the smoke machine mist around her head, and her hair around her face, like she was in a beautiful music video.

Misty’s performance evoked a similar feeling, especially during the song “Pure Comedy.” Finally, the music started to get louder, and Tillman’s voice built to a scream. The single trumpet player sounded like 20.

Tillman flew across the stage with his dancing half-steps, and leaned forward into the microphone, curling in toward the ground. The smoke blew, the lights flashed, and then the stage went dark, and the song was over.

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