The Last Dinner Party London Review

A Night at the Pyre: The Last Dinner Party Turn Brixton into a Baroque Kingdom

On Monday, December 8th, O2 Brixton Academy didn’t just host a concert — it hosted a coronation. The Last Dinner Party brought the UK & Ireland leg of their From the Pyre tour to its finale, and for two nights, the venue transformed into a glittering, burning, theatrical kingdom ruled entirely by five women who seemed to bend time, genre, and gravity with their presence.

Even before the band stepped into the light, the room felt enchanted. The stage resembled a crumbling fairytale castle, arches glowing in deep reds and golds as if the walls themselves were alive. Suspended above it all was a chandelier so whimsical and strange it felt stolen from a dream — delicate sculpted birds floated around its crown, catching the beams and scattering light across the Academy like tiny wandering spirits. People kept glancing up, mesmerised, as if they’d stumbled into some nocturnal palace by accident.

Then came “Agnus Dei.” Not so much an opener as an invocation. It rolled out slowly, voices rising like smoke from a ritual fire. The audience didn’t just cheer — they offered themselves up. From there, the band tore into “Count the Ways,” and soon the entire room was vibrating, bodies pressed close, breathless and ready.

By “The Feminine Urge,” Brixton had fully surrendered to the chaos. Abigail Morris introduced the band with theatrical flourishes, pacing the stage like she was born for cathedral aisles and velvet curtains. Fans screamed the lyrics with something raw and unfiltered, a kind of collective exorcism that left no one untouched.

As the set moved through “Caesar on a TV Screen,” “Portrait of a Dead Girl,” “On Your Side,” and “Second Best,” the energy kept shifting form — now delicate, now vicious, now shimmering — never settling, always blooming into something new. The castle lights flickered across the musicians like firelight, casting them as heroines, villains, goddesses, all in the same breath.

The middle run — “Hold Your Anger,” “Woman Is a Tree,” “Gjuha,” “Rifle,” and “Big Dog” — grew wilder by the minute. Emily’s guitar sliced through the haze, Aurora’s keys threaded everything with cinematic drama, and Georgia’s bass throbbed like the floor itself had a pulse. By “Mirror” and “The Scythe,” the Academy felt like one living, heaving organism.

Photos by Wiktoria Wolny

Then came a moment of grounding — a sudden, unexpected softening.
Just before “Sinner,” Abigail paused and looked out over the room. She told the story of playing one of their earliest shows right down the road at The Windmill — the tiny, legendary Brixton pub where half of London’s cult bands cut their teeth. She spoke about those nights and what it meant to return here, to this colossal room, years later, with thousands of people screaming for them. The crowd fell into a hush — a rare, reverent quiet — and for a breath, past and present stitched themselves together in the most intimate way.

With that, they launched into “Sinner,” “My Lady of Mercy,” and then “This Is The Killer Speaking” — complete with Imogen and The Knives. Before the chaos broke loose, Abigail stopped to teach the entire Academy a two-move dance routine, and people actually did it. Thousands of us jumping, spinning and laughing — a moment so unexpectedly tender and ridiculous it felt like a secret shared among strangers.

When they debuted “Knocking at the Sky” — its first live performance ever — the room went still as water. Everyone knew they were witnessing something that would be talked about for years.

But the eruption that followed was unmatched.

“Nothing Matters.”
The song that lit the fuse for this band. Brixton didn’t sing it — it roared it, full-throated and unashamed. Hands brushed against strangers, voices cracked in the best way, and the chandelier birds flashed overhead like tiny shooting stars. For a moment, it felt like the entire room was weightless.

Finally, the band returned to “Agnus Dei” for an outro — a last, glowing heartbeat. They lingered onstage longer than usual, waving, laughing, turning back again and again as if trying to memorise every face. You could tell they didn’t want to leave. You could feel that the crowd didn’t either.

When the lights rose, no one moved at first. It was that kind of night — the kind you want to stay inside for as long as humanly possible. The castle had opened its gates just for a few hours, and stepping back out into London felt like waking from a dream too vivid to shake.

This wasn’t just a tour finale.

It was a world closing its doors — and for one unforgettable night, we were all inside the kingdom.

Photos by Wiktoria Wolny