Declan McKenna is an escape artist. A slight shift in perspective, a few notes in, and you’re somewhere else entirely. You’ve forgotten where you were, what you were doing, even who you are. That’s how quickly he turns the mundane into something electric. The stage at Alexandra Palace is dim, save for a few scattered lights that flicker like fireflies caught in a jar. But then “Sympathy” kicks in, and the room immediately feels like it’s filling up with light. He arrives, unassuming for a headline show, but that’s the trick, isn’t it? He walks on stage, not looking like he’s about to command a crowd of thousands, but then he does it effortlessly. And it doesn’t feel like a performance so much as an invitation. “Join me,” he seems to say, without saying anything at all.
There’s an ease in his presence, and the crowd responds as though they were waiting for this moment to happen. “Sympathy” is all of the best parts of McKenna’s world – lyrically astute, wrapped in the kind of infectious rhythms that could knock you out of your seat. It’s that signature, too-bouncy-to-be-angsty indie-pop, but laced with a sense of urgency that feels like it could combust at any moment. The song’s chords are jangly, but McKenna’s delivery cuts through them with a clarity that feels personal, like he’s singing only to you. He’s not trying to persuade anyone; he’s just laying it out. Maybe he doesn’t even know it himself, but there’s a pulse in his voice that demands your attention.
The second song, “Why Do You Feel So Down,” bounces in almost too quickly – as if McKenna’s worried about losing you to the lingering hangover of the last track. But it’s a trap. You don’t feel down when he’s around. The infectious melody spills over and fills the room. Everyone’s singing along, or maybe that’s just what you think because the lyrics are so catchy, they feel like they’ve always been there. Maybe the crowd’s participation is a bit of an illusion, but it’s real in the way that McKenna’s songs slip into your bloodstream and feel like they’ve been a part of your life for years. They have that sort of warmth to them. And yet, the lyrics have this sneaky tendency to hit you in a place you weren’t expecting. Insecurities are bubbling underneath the surface, but McKenna’s light touch ensures that no one’s ever too far from the dance floor.
The space between the songs is a kind of casual chaos. Not forced, just organic – a kid in control, but just enough of a mess to make things feel like they might spill over. There’s something very much alive about McKenna’s energy; he’s not just performing for you, he’s performing with you.
Then, at some point – or was it really a moment? It could have been hours or seconds, McKenna pulls back. The lights dim, the tempo slows down, and the chorus of “Elevator Hum” swirls through the venue. It’s quieter, more intimate in a strange way, despite the sound crashing and swirling around you like a windstorm. His voice becomes more fragile, though still sharp, as though there’s something hovering just below the surface, barely restrained. The crowd’s been wound so tightly that when the beat drops, it feels like the air snaps. And there’s that sudden, unspoken connection. You weren’t expecting it, but here it is: an entire arena of people, syncing up with the urgency of a beat that shouldn’t be this personal but is anyway.
There’s an honesty in McKenna’s songwriting – one that sidesteps the trappings of pretense. It’s that moment when a line breaks through that you didn’t even know you needed to hear. “Honest Test” comes next, pulling the entire room into a stripped-back moment of clarity. The instrumental lightens, pulling focus onto McKenna’s voice. His delivery is rawer here, like he’s showing you the vulnerable side of the spectacle that’s been unfolding. Maybe it’s the way he sings the words with a kind of resigned intensity, or maybe it’s just that this song resonates on a level that goes beyond the beat. There’s something about this stripped-down arrangement that takes the room from buzzing, bouncing energy to a quiet hum. You could almost hear a pin drop. The kind of quiet that’s not awkward, but comfortable, like you’re all sitting in a living room together, wondering whether to say the thing you’re all thinking. Maybe it’s just that McKenna knows how to quiet a room and let the words hang without making it uncomfortable. That’s rare.
By the time the set is winding down, McKenna’s jumping between moments that feel like the sharpest of sparks and the warmest of comforts. There’s this balance of sharp criticism and soft melancholy, each song weaving together a sense of urgency that sneaks up on you. You’re not sure when it happened, but you’re completely immersed. You’ve been here for hours, but it feels like time folded in on itself. Is that how McKenna works? Maybe it’s because he doesn’t need to be the loudest person in the room, just the one with the most to say.
In the final moments, the crowd’s collective energy feels like it’s stretching into some kind of abstract space. The last few songs are moments of release, but with McKenna, it’s never the kind of release where everything explodes outward. No. It’s the release where you’ve let go, but you’re still holding something – maybe it’s the edge of a thought, or maybe it’s just that feeling of wanting to be in this moment forever, the one that feels uniquely his. There’s something quietly revolutionary about it.
And just like that, it’s over. The crowd’s still buzzing, but you’re left wondering how it happened. The night’s scattered in your mind like memories that don’t quite fit together, and yet, somehow, they make perfect sense.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
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