The Palladium, London
Monday, 12th May 2025
Some Reflections
Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned. True. But a man who has parted with 70 notes for a gig he leaves halfway through isn’t too far behind! After 46 years as a prolific concertgoer, I’ve only ever left two gigs early: Fish at Islington (date forgotten but watching him neck a bottle of Savvy B on stage remains vivid) and now Steven Wilson at The Palladium.
The day after the night before, there has been a fascinating spectrum of reactions to my terse Facebook summary of the experience as ‘preening, posturing, performative bollocks’. I stand by those words, even though they were formed in the heat of the moment and an almost quizzically surprised feeling of crushing disappointment.
Having only attended the gig up to the interval, it isn’t appropriate for me to offer a ‘review’ of the evening. Nor would I wish to. I am no stranger to seeing Wilson live – see my rather exuberant review of the utterly breathtaking 2016 tour at Hammersmith. But I am perplexed by my reaction to the performance and hearing the views of others ranging across all spectrums. I offer the following as a set of honest reflections as I try to unpack what, for me, ‘went wrong’ on Monday night.
First, credit where credit is due. Wilson and the band were in stunning form. Beggs and Holzman, in particular, were dazzling. The production was flawless, the sound was exceptional, and the immersive visuals were meticulously layered to form a fascinating and thrilling experience. So far, so good.
But here lies the beginning of the problem. I wasn’t immersed. The experience being offered wasn’t alluring or seductive. It didn’t pull me in and sweep me away. And that is unusual for me. I fully concede it could have been a rough day at work, I wasn’t in a particularly receptive mood, and I may have had a lot on my mind. It happens. The resonance just wasn’t there.
However, when it is not there, you find yourself in a peculiar position of being an essentially detached observer calmly watching – and noticing – the peculiarities of the spectacle before you. It left me with three broad observations.
First, I increasingly worry that bands and musicians are beginning to prioritise slick and sleek production at the expense of the soul of the music. In my review of the Roger Water’s This Is Not A Drill gig at the O2 in 2023, I respectfully suggested Waters had elevated theatricality over musicality mistakenly believing you can capture the rage of protest by plastering the word ‘fuck’ in big letters all over giant video screens. Yes, the theatricality helps emphasise the point being made, but it has to be the music itself which must carry us into the heart of the rage and burning sense of injustice which leads to protest.
Likewise, I love what Wilson has been doing with the advent of The Raven That Refused to Sing (2013) by carefully blending provocative video storytelling with the music forming the cradle of the evocative, powerful emotions he seeks to communicate. But perhaps you can return to the same well once too often. The video work accompanying The Overview lacked the finesse and elegance needed to communicate musical emotion successfully. Much like Waters, projecting awesome-sounding words from physics to try and capture the yawning depths of space is no substitute for taking your listeners on the journey via the music being played. It became repetitive to the point of being tiresome. He tried to open the door, but alas, I couldn’t walk through it.
Second. Once you see the performer rather than hear the music, attention shifts to focus on the artist, and the audience is lost in the process.” Basically, once you stop listening to the music and start to watch intently the chap or chappess playing it, the game is over. Your focus has shifted elsewhere, and the possibility of immersion is lessened. It is sometimes said that toward the end of his career, the most significant ‘criticism’ of Harold Pinter was that he ‘got away’ with being Harold Pinter. Last night, I felt Steven Wilson was getting away with simply being “Steven Wilson”. It was performative, not substantive.
It reminded me of Sartre’s illustration of ‘bad faith’ and the behaviour of a café waiter. Sartre points to the actions of the waiter as a role. He becomes a stereotype or caricature of a waiter, affixing the welcoming smile, slightly exaggerated gestures designed to please. Play-acting. Watching Wilson last night, I had precisely that same feeling. It was an act; it was Steven Wilson playing Steven Wilson as the audience expected rather than inhabiting the music. In the process, we lost the warmth, the fluidity, the natural organic spontaneity of the musician who, years before, reduced over 4000 people to the verge of tears with his rendition of Happy Returns and Ascendent Here On. Again, I acknowledge this could all be just me and the mood of the moment on the night. But I do know that once you lose focus on the music and focus instead on the person playing the music, something is amiss.
Third. I made the deliberate choice last night not to listen to the new album before going to the gig. It is the first time I have ever done this. Too often, I find the fixation on the studio recording doesn’t always tell you what is going on with the music. A live performance is exciting in what it reveals in terms of the interplay between instruments, the characters of the musicians who imbue the moment with energy, emotion, emphasis and touch. The heady mixture of a live stage is endlessly fascinating in what it can reveal about music you thought you knew, and then, when you see it live, you suddenly ‘get’ what it’s all about.
Last night, I quickly ‘got’ what it was all about. The problem, in the end, was precisely because of the two reasons mentioned above, it was delivered in such a way that I didn’t care. Space is mind-numbingly big. I get it. The distances blow your mind. I get that too. It’s awesome. By rights, it ought to fill you with all manner of feelings of existential dread and excitement. But it didn’t. I wasn’t expecting that. Looking around the auditorium, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of envy at those who were ‘getting it’ and wishing I was also ‘in’ on the journey they were experiencing. I wanted to. Desperately wanted to. But alas, it was not to be.
Again, it happens. Such is the unpredictable beauty, thrill, and wonder of live music. I offer these reflections not as a condemnation of Wilson’s artistry but as a way of trying to make sense of a frustrating evening, knowing others felt the same way. In contrast, others came away with totally different feelings and thoughts. There’s always next time (hopefully cheaper!)—and such is Wilson’s undoubted talent, I will certainly go and see him again and hope the old magic returns.
