Head of Culture Evelyn Shepphird examines dichotomy and immortality within Richard Ashcroft’s euphoric performance at the O2 on Saturday, March 28th.
Nearly thirty years after The Verve cemented their place in music history with the release of ‘Urban Hymns’, Verve frontman and songwriter Richard Ashcroft took the O2 stage as a solo act. Roar came to watch. Ashcroft’s tour—the accompaniment for his 2025 studio album ‘Lover’—comes after he joined Oasis on their immensely successful Live ‘25 tour, where he supported his ‘90s rock contemporaries in the UK, Ireland, and South America. Saturday, March 28th was the only chance to see Ashcroft in London, and it followed sold-out shows at the Co-op in Manchester, Utilita Arena in Cardiff, and M&S Bank Arena in Liverpool.
That Saturday, the O2 was buzzing. Outside the arena, the bars and pubs had a healthy stream of customers, and TFL’s service information in North Greenwich station featured a long announcement full of Ashcroft puns (‘Date / Time’ information was coopted ‘Date / “there ain’t no space and…” Time’, for example). As people trickled to their seats, I was pleasantly surprised by the variance in ages of the audience. Even in the pit, I was pleased to note some white heads pushing their way to the front.
The Royston Club—a Wrexham-based indie rock band—set the tone well for Ashcroft as the support act. The romantic vocals of lead singer Tom Faithfull and the delicious solos from guitarist Ben Matthais were met warmly by the audience. After their last somewhat folksy song, a vinyl DJ took the stage while archival athletic footage played on the screens.
Roar was invited to sit with a clear view of stage left. Technicians constructed Ashcroft’s stage, dimming the lights and bringing down a colossal ‘R A’ sign, lit up with lightbulbs like a vintage theatre. It was a beautiful stage: atmospheric, dark and foggy, peopled with shadowed figures moving instruments back and forth. The arena erupted at the first strain of music–strings, of course–though we couldn’t yet see Ashcroft. The design felt very him, though: I gathered Ashcroft has mastered the stitching together of disparate aesthetics to form a very cool, detailed, and deliberate visual and sonic identity.
Finally, still cloaked in black and fog, hard to see among his musicians arranging their instruments, Ashcroft took the stage. Before the lights hit him, he raised his arms, and even in silhouette, it was enough to get the whole arena screaming. Stepping into golden light in the middle of the stage, he gave the audience a couple of nods and gazed around with a boyish sort of casualness. Dressed in jeans and sunglasses, I was surprised by how exact he was to the swaggering, loose-limbed, beautiful creature from the ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’ music video.
‘Beautiful creature’. Richard Ashcroft at the O2. Photo by Gary Walker.
He started with ‘Hold On’, a 2016 solo song from his album ‘These People’. Euphoric and energetic, I was immediately impressed with the quality of Ashcroft’s voice. While I’m familiar with how he sounds over headphones and out of a record player, hearing him live was something else: he wields a legitimately unbelievable power and richness behind his voice. ‘Space and Time’ delivered under blue light and deceptively casually with an acoustic guitar was, of course, received rapturously by the audience. He maintained energy well with ‘Music is Power’, a clear crowd favorite. Ashcroft got the whole venue on their feet with the anticipatory announcement: “I THINK WE ALL AGREE THAT MUSIC IS POWER!” then Ashcroft lost his red jacket, punching out “Power! Power! Power!” in jeans and a white t-shirt with both hands on the microphone. ‘A Song for the Lovers’ convinced me that many of my neighbors were there on date night–those who hadn’t risen for ‘Music is Power’ were up for good since. Then it was ‘Break the Night with Colour’ beautifully delivered and sung along by the audience, before rolling into ‘Velvet Morning’.
‘Velvet Morning’ had my heart in my throat. Ashcroft told a story beforehand about initially recording the track with a megaphone, though I struggled to see why that might be necessary based on the sheer power of his voice. Sweeping strings backed Ashcroft’s impressive growl, and I think every single person in the audience joined Ashcroft to sing “Life is a game”. Ashcroft was beautiful, lit in a beautiful column of white light in front of pulsing reds, and his earnestness, coupled with the impressive musical ability of his string section and band, and the exemplary construction of the song itself, levitated the performance into one of the most memorable concert moments in memory.
Throughout the show, the string section was impressively lush and fervent. As the iconic signature of Ashcroft’s songwriting, this is a must. The backup singers, too, were lovely and enjoyable to watch for how much they clearly enjoyed performing. Nonetheless, aside from a couple of truly extraordinary guitar solos from Ashcroft’s lead guitarist, it was impossible to look away from Ashcroft in his characteristic mirrored sunglasses, commanding the stage with the same looseness of movement he had in the ‘90s.
‘Degree of unstudied casualness.’ Richard Ashcroft at the O2. Photo by Gary Walker.
I cannot overstate how arresting his vocals were. Somehow, Ashcroft is able to straddle clear, bright vocals with genuine grit and growl–both of which he delivers with such strength. He is able to deliver this power with a degree of unstudied casualness. He’s clearly having fun even whilst making the sound of his voice something palpable, even from even the back of the arena. Performing in the convergence of perfection and joy, I could see the young man he used to be. Still is.
I was curious about the number of Verve songs on the setlist: Ashcroft’s latest album, ‘Lovin’ You’, was released late 2025, but was only featured once on the setlist. Meanwhile, Verve’s iconic 1997 album, ‘Urban Hymns’ had an impressive seven slots. This might be because Ashcroft is, arguably, the Verve at its most distilled: even in old Verve footage, Ashcroft commands the stage entirely. In between Verve projects, Ashcroft was prolific, releasing several studio albums. Even by himself, his talent and presence speaks entirely for itself. Ashcroft delivers The Verve’s music with immense resonance.
His next song was a single from one of his solo projects, ’Surprised by the Joy’. Next was ‘Weeping Willow’, on which the lead guitar was euphoric, an exemplary instrumental performance in which Ashcroft, bathed in blue light again, focused the intensity of his energy on the guitar soloist. As always, he’s in perfect command of the entire stage. Juxtaposing the string arrangements characteristic of ‘Urban Hymns’ with the rock-and-roll catharsis of the genre, make images of Ashcroft conducting his on-stage band in mirrored sunglasses and jeans arresting. The sweeping, long gestures of his elegant limbs are orchestral where every other part of his physicality is coltish but casually cool. When he dances–as taken with his own music as we are–he’s actually cute.
‘Actually cute’. Richard Ashcroft at the O2. Photo by Gary Walker.
It’s this sort of earnestness which I think has endeared a lot of the audience to him throughout his career: I got the sense that my neighbors were familiar with Ashcroft’s performance style, even since the new album. When ‘Lover’, a new song, was introduced, (“I’m gonna try a newer one!”) the people surrounding me preempted Ashcroft’s introductory “Lover, oo-oo!”, which left me grinning. Once again, Ashcroft is a delightful dichotomy: a rockstar with an earnest romanticism, and a candid, adoring love of music, which makes watching him extremely enjoyable. This play between sincerity and musical perfectionism gives him a lot of power over both his musicians and his audience which makes it impossible not to follow him when he asks us to return his energy tenfold.
Though ‘Lover’ was not the most touching of Ashcroft’s introductory stories. Ashcroft shifted the tone dramatically by dedicating the following ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ to his dog–a “beautiful”, clearly beloved jack russell called Betsy who had recently passed. He had had the dog since 2007–nineteen years. Betsy would have seen Ashcroft through the third breakup of the Verve, through Ashcroft’s first festival dates in Latin America, and through three studio albums–we live now in a completely different world from the one he must have taken that jack russell puppy home in.
“The pain is so [hard] when they’ve got to go,” Ashcroft said, before delivering a truly gut-wrenching performance. ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ is a tear-jerker on its own, but listening to Ashcroft sing “if you leave my life / I’m better off dead”, about a recent loss, was unbearably sad. In the audience, I couldn’t keep myself composed, so I was really floored at Ashcroft’s professionalism in keeping it together, keeping his voice as stunning as ever, singing about such a recent grief. Though perhaps Ashcroft knows something about grief that I don’t. Even that song breaks satisfyingly out of a ballad and into an energetic rock song, which feels oddly comforting. It’s fairly characteristic of the set of northern rockstars from the ‘90s to have some sort of a positive ethos, and though the lyrics of ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ don’t necessarily promise optimism, the energy behind the final minutes makes the song feel like an acknowledgement of the love that persists after loss. Ashcroft is playing with dichotomy again: there is no devastation, the production seems to argue, without hope.
He got personal about the following ‘Lucky Man’, too. Another ‘Urban Hymns’ cut, Ashcroft opened the song with a story about being unable to study music GCSE when he was younger because of where he grew up. Acknowledging that he’s being vulnerable up on stage, singing all the songs he wrote, (“I’m wearing jeans but I’m still pretty naked up here,”) he made a point to insist to the young people in the audience “You have a future in music!” It was really very inspiring for a couple of reasons: firstly, because recognizing how lovely it is that Ashcroft has spent his career doing exactly what he loves and is brilliant at is delightful, and secondly, for the reminder, once again, of Ashcroft’s immense talent. Before singing, he shouted out “Fire in my hands!” and watching him deliver the corresponding line in the song while holding his guitar sent shivers down my spine at the understanding that his guitar is a sort of Prometheus’ fire. A lucky man, to wield that, indeed.
‘His guitar is a sort of Prometheus’ fire’. Richard Ashcroft at the O2. Photo by Gary Walker.
Ashcroft leaves the stage to solicit an encore, which is a complete farce seeing as he hadn’t yet played ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’. That said, it was nice that he started this final section with a really lovely display of his vocal ability: the medley of ‘History’, ‘On Your Own’, ‘These People’, ‘Buy It in Bottles’, ‘Check the Meaning’, ‘Lonely Soul’, ‘One Day’, and ‘Are You Ready?’ was enchanting. He doesn’t have to prove it at this point, but his voice is a knockout, which he exhibits again and again.
Thanking the audience, Ashcroft then joked “After last year, it’s nice to play an intimate venue”. He’s referencing his opening in huge stadiums around the world for the Oasis Live ‘25 tour, and this wasn’t the last reference to his 90s peers: he predicated his two closers with ‘C’mon People (We’re Making It Now)’, a song that he dedicated to “Liam” (Gallagher), who “sounds really good on it”. True–Gallagher features on a lovely rerelease of the single from 2021. Adorably, Ashcroft expressed wanting to work with the Oasis frontman again, but I’m not getting my hopes up: Ashcroft said Liam is “doing real well as it is” after reuniting Oasis. Even without Liam, Ashcroft did a great job on ‘C’mon People,’ playing the electric guitar for a spell.
I think every single person at the O2 screamed ‘Sonnet’ back at Ashcroft. It’s a song that has resonated for thirty years, and during the performance, I saw a sea of people whose hands were up and out, swaying, giving Ashcroft back everything his genius has given us. I remember not wanting to record it, but wanting just to have it, to feel it: that sense of oneness with the rest of the audience. Emotional, to be one of thousands for whom this song is meaningful, and to be one of thousands expressing that in gratitude to Ashcroft. He hugged his guitar after, which struck the same chord of awed disbelief that his ‘Lucky Man’ speech did.
Even after that, it would have been worth going to see the concert only for ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’. That, too, had an overwhelming communal, joyful element. Richard Ashcroft dedicated the song “to anyone who’s bringing home the bacon, bringing home the falafel for the family, working hard.” The iconic strings started up and were met with a flood of excited screams and cheers. “Let’s celebrate all the pain, all the joy in life–together!” thundered Ashcroft, over the noise. “Let’s take the fuckin’ roof off!”
He lost his red jacket again, and broke into dance when the drums kicked in. The performance was more than amazing–Ashcroft paced the stage, miming the violins in the back, and punched the air when he started singing. He gave it to his audience for the first resolution of the chorus (“SYMPHONY, THAT’S LIFE!” roared the crowd at Ashcroft with his arms raised). It’s a song that’s been resonating with people since the ‘90s, one widely regarded as one of, if not the, best song of the ‘90s. An incisive cut at society and a rapturous expression of hope, the song encapsulates the polarity that makes Ashcroft so compelling. Repetitive refrains like “No change, I can change” and “It’s just sex and violence, melody and silence” exemplify this tension and harmony between extremes.
Ashcroft put his entire soul into that performance, dropping to his knees at several points to deliver certain phrases with immense power and pumping his fists to get the whole arena on board. He was beyond words, absolutely incredible.
‘Force of a performer’. Richard Ashcroft at the O2. Photo by Gary Walker.
It’s a good act when a musician can deliver better live than on a recording, and that is true a thousand times over for Richard Ashcroft. The whole show was euphoric, cathartic, and completely invigorating. Ultimately I walked away with a surety that Richard Ashcroft is an undeniably talented force of a performer whose expertise is in an elegant, masterful command of dichotomy. This performance was one of melancholy and euphoria, and complete individual mastery of one’s craft: Ashcroft is really very good at his job. his voice live is a tactile thing. He’s able to project both clear, resonant notes and a rich, gritty rasp all the way to the back of the arena, unique and beautiful.
He’s such a master, in fact, that I’d argue he approaches immortality. From the minute he walked on stage–boyish and swaggering in the same way he did in the ‘90s, it felt like going back in time. I felt transported into grainy ‘90s footage of Verve performances: Ashcroft is the exact same. Watching him move and sing, his years just fall away–the years just fall away. Ashcroft uses the same mannerisms in 2026 as he did in 1998 delivering the hypnotic “No change, I can change / I can change, I can change” from ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’, making me believe, for a spell, that I’d gone back in time about thirty years. Psychedelic.
There’s a degree to which music is necessarily transient–a way of decorating time rather than space–but for the act of performance to be an immortal one is a testament to such immense skill because it’s a defiance of the transient inevitability of performance. Even in video, performances can’t last forever, but to convince me, for two hours, that if the musician is skilled enough, he can defy time, can make an eternity out of impermanence–makes Richard Ashcroft nothing short of legendary.
‘Nothing short of legendary.’ Richard Ashcroft at the O2. Photo by Gary Walker.
Richard Ashcroft is continuing his tour with dates in Ireland, France, and Italy. He is back in London on the 17th of July at Alexandra Palace, supported by the Lathums and Cast.
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