Sufjan Stevens at The Helix: a radiant rendering of his seventh studio album

The stage, at first bathed in half-light, hosts five musicians waiting to begin, as old Super 8 footage of Sufjan Stevens' family flickers above. What follows is the most transporting live experience; a radiant rendering of Stevens seventh studio album Carrie & Lowell.

Stevens was last here in 2011 for Age of Adz - that record, and show, was a celebration of life, of Stevens feeling well again after a long period of chronic pain. Tonight's show is no less a celebration of life, but of Stevens mother, Carrie, who passed away in 2012. The record itself is a devastating masterpiece about that loss and Stevens coming to terms with their complicated relationship, yet his ability to translate searing personal testimony into something universal is what strongly resonates tonight.

Stevens' most recent work is also a love letter to his stepfather, Lowell, who introduced him to music. This mingling of profound pain and gratitude anchors his performance and provides a stunning momentum, peppered with a little stagecraft. The whole world is represented here: frailty in the delicate guitar on Death with Dignity; regret on Should Have Known Better; joy on the layered Carrie & Lowell; and faith on Eugene, with its narrative of lemon trees and praying to things that cannot be seen. The fragmented remembrances of The Only Thing lingers long in the atmosphere, as does John My Beloved, and the piercing harmonies of No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross.

Atmosphere is something Stevens brings to The Helix, a sympathetic space for his show, lending itself well to his invitation to church; at one point mirrorballs and clever lighting suggests stained glass windows which, along with the confiding nature of the performance, provide a genuinely transcendental experience. Something the haunting Vesuvius, with a semblance of choreography, harnesses.

When Stevens momentarily forgets a lyric (whispering to bandmate Dawn Landes "what is it?") the audience collectively exhales and laughs, a disarming reminder of how invested we are. The Fourth of July, with its swirling sonic layers and loving, sad lyrics sounds like a plane falling out of the sky, building up to the final truth, that "we're all going to die". It's surprisingly comforting.

There is something about the quality of this work and Stevens' vision that propels his band to give more than great musicianship. It's so clear in their chemistry, and their reaction to returning to the stage for the encore. As Stevens picks up his banjo to "play some pretty songs", everything is stripped back further from The Dress Looks Nice on You and Casimir Pulaski Day, to the inimitable Chicago, reminding us of his earlier work, and his ongoing quest for freedom.

A peerless show.