Review

Declan McKenna is an escape artist. A slight shift in perspective, a few notes in, and you’re somewhere else entirely. […]

It starts with the kind of hush that isn’t silence, but something thicker, weightier—a held breath before the first note

A velvet curtain of sound. Not a show, not a performance—a whisper of something from another time, folded into the

Gilded static, the kind that prickles at the nape, seeps into the air as the crowd thickens, bodies shimmering under

Caught in the crossfade of an opium dream and a Jane Austen fever hallucination, The Last Dinner Party burn bright

There’s a moment—somewhere between the bass rattling my ribcage and the strobe lights slicing the darkness into cold, surgical fragments—where