Marillion
Eventim Apollo, London
Thursday, 1 October 2026
Nobody asks the question out loud at the Eventim Apollo on Thursday night, yet it hangs, in some shape or form, over every song we hear. Marillion open with Gaza. Seventeen minutes of grief, fury and bewilderment, offered with no word of introduction. Sat in the front row, I feel its unimaginable rawness arrive like an approaching weather front, something which envelops you, surrounds you, close enough for Pete Trewavas’s bass to vibrate pleasingly in the ribcage.
The question keeps returning, dressed in different clothes. Wistful. Close to despair, without ever giving in. Reflective, aching songs find their counterweight in calls to arms, and h makes the wretched state of the world felt, in the body as much as the mind. He has no more idea what to do about it than the rest of us. He knows something else, though, and he lets us know he knows. Music is what we have. He means to use it as well as he can. He bloody well does.
Seasons End comes second, the title track of h’s first album with the band, back in 1989. It brings tears to my eyes. A lament for vanishing winters and the world we are going to pass on to our children, it sounds more urgent now than it did thirty-seven years ago. Touching. Unspeakably heartfelt. A few songs later, h dedicates Sugar Mice to Fish. The acknowledgement is appreciatively warm, and the theatre receives the gesture warmly. The voice of one era honours the voice of another. It’s a classy touch.
Five musicians, one persona. Marillion move and play as a single musical force, to the point you stop knowing where one ends and another begins. The boundaries are organic and fluid, each part with its own temperament, attentively and ceaselessly interplaying with the others.
Stage left, Pete Trewavas is the engine room: a bundle of relentless energy, half lost in a world of his own, yet locked into every driving rhythm, every broiling bassline delivered with conviction. Stage right stands Steve Rothery. My goodness. His eyes are closed for long stretches, as though he feels the music arrive somewhere deep inside and simply lets it pass through his fingers, into the strings, out to us. One guitar, so many nuanced voices: tender, forceful, curious, playful, consoling. How one man with a guitar conveys so much emotion is a mystery. Ours is not to question how.
Behind the keyboards, Mark Kelly surprises me. I have never noticed quite how supremely attentive he is. His eyes dart everywhere, checking, affirming, making sure every strand knits into the whole. He smiles, often, intent yet clearly enjoying himself. At the back, Ian Mosley, the foundation (the legend!), quietly goes about doing what needs to be done. Iconic, and unshowy with it.
Then there is the phenomenon of h. I really don’t know what more can be said of him. That voice: it is everything, and he knows exactly how to use it. It has a scintillating power to transform anything it touches and to communicate everything it sings.
He is the perfect frontman, a natural storyteller who never takes himself too seriously. Songs are his medium and (since I’m waxing lyrical) almost his natural state of being in the world. When he sings, the voice becomes an enticing, beckoning finger. It draws you out of yourself, seductively, and you follow, willing, unaware you are moving at all.
Special mention goes to the sound folks. Crystal clarity, perfect balance: every voice in the mix stands distinct, yet nothing jostles for room. You hear everything. Nothing is lost, nothing overwhelms. An absolute joy to hear. The soundstage is stunning.
With The Space…, the choir Flowing Chords take their places, and they stay for the rest of the night. Oh boy, do they add to the party. They bring depth and vocal heft, enhancing the music and cradling the lyrics into sharper relief. Swelling textures lift songs already rich in nuance and feeling to fresh elegance and finesse.
The audience is transfixed, utterly captivated by the magic of what they are hearing. Standing ovations break out repeatedly throughout the evening, each one a heartfelt expression of surprise, delight and amazement. Time ceases to exist in this sublime bubble.
What are we doing? What difference can we make? Neither question has an answer. Marillion pose them with clear-eyed focus. This is the stuff their songs are made of, and it makes them such a magnetising force for those who listen. A hall full of strangers, breathing as one, carries the same confusions and uncertainties, the same ache deep down in the places where things matter most. When Man of a Thousand Faces rises to its close, choir and band together, the questions remain. They simply weigh on us all a little less.
We are alone, together, here and now, in this ‘fantastic place’. It is enough. More than enough. Joyful, contemplative contentment.
SETLIST
Gaza
Seasons End
Ribbons and Lace
Hotel Hobbies
Sugar Mice (Dedicated to Fish, with a thanks from h)
Care (I) Maintenance Drugs
Care (II) An Hour Before It’s Dark
Care (III) Every Cell
Care (IV) Angels on Earth
Flowing Chords arrive on stage.
The Space…
Enlightened
The Crow and the Nightingale
Easter
Lucky Man
Out of This World
Living in F E A R
Go!
Wave
Mad
The Great Escape
~ Encore:
The Release
Man of a Thousand Faces
MUSICIANS
Steve Hogarth – Vocals
Mark Kelly – Keyboards
Ian Mosley – Drums, Percussion
Steve Rothery – Guitar
Pete Trewavas – Bass
~ With:
Flowing Chords – an Italian Choral Project
Director – Margherita Flore
Elisa Benedetti
Giacomo Campolo
Nausicaa Costanzo
Lisa Fiorani
Flaminia Lobianco
Valeria Piccolo
Francesco “Frank” Polucci
Brian Riente
Alessandra Formica Sacchini
Elisa Tronti
LINKS
Marillion – Website | Facebook | YouTube | Instagram
Photos: Rob Fisher.
This review first appeared at The Progressive Aspect on 5 October 2026.