The first time I listened to Nils Frahm was in the quiet of 2020. In the midst of a months-long lockdown, working from home, in desperate need of newness and calm. I'm not sure how I came upon his album Empty – perhaps the algorithm has its perks – but I do know that it offered me a sense of solace and serenity in a time when I, and probably the world, needed it most.

Fast forward five years, and I caught wind of Frahm's imminent shows at the Sydney Opera House. I knew I simply had to be there. So, last night in the still before a storm (quite literally), I headed inside the Concert Hall, which never fails to awe me.

Opening for Frahm was Tamil Nadu-raised and New York-born singer Ganavya, accompanied by London-based Austrian-Ethiopian harpist Miriam Adefris. To a half-full room slowly filling with people, the pair moved through a series of songs and lullabies – angelic, soft as a whisper, but powerful nonetheless.

And then there was Nils. Skipping onto stage with a smile and a wave, there were no formalities to be had before he sat down at his tinker-table full of trinkets. Synths, keyboards, switch boards and a turning pike of glass that he began to caress under a dim orange light (I have since learned this is called a glass harmonica, also known as a glass armonica). Crisp, clear notes rang out. Minimal, successive. Only ever one at a time. These were followed by sweet chords, moving through progressions that built until he found himself playing an organ-like keyboard underneath it in a staccato.

It wasn't until someone two rows behind me coughed about 10 minutes in that I realised just how utterly silent 5,000 people could be. We were mesmerised, entranced, following one man in a dance between machines, bathed in orange light.

I'd like to think of myself as fairly well-heeled when it comes to gigs. I've spent more than my fair share of time and money in concert halls and dive bars alike – all in the name of music. But there are these rare moments that feel like they transcend the sonic into something spiritual. And Frahm's set was one of those for me. At times I simply closed my eyes as if in meditation, following his lead as notes crescendoed and crashed; as piano keys morphed into thundering synths.

Even the audience's wild, cacophony of animal noises Frahm could warp and bend into something beyond beautiful.

After a bow and the fetching of a glass of white wine from behind stage, Frahm finished with a final thunderous piano ballad, filled with hand movements so deft and quick they blurred together. And in response, the audience offered a rapturous standing ovation. Perhaps one never so deserved.

You can catch Nils Frahm on his Australian concert tour, with shows still left in Sydney, Adelaide, Hobart and Melbourne. Tickets are available via Nils Frahm's website.