Review & Photography by Manny Manson for MPM
In the Style of Douglas Adams
The thing about farewell tours is that they always feel slightly improbable, much like the idea that a six-foot-five Scotsman with a voice like rolling thunder and the lyrical dexterity of an intergalactic poet could dominate the stage for over forty years. And yet, here we all were, squeezed into Rock City, Nottingham, like sardines who had all suddenly discovered a mutual passion for epic prog rock storytelling and heart-crushing emotional intensity.
The lights dimmed. The air vibrated with anticipation. Then, with the inevitability of gravity pulling space debris into a planet’s orbit, the first chord of ‘Vigil’ (Vigil in a Wilderness of Mirrors, 1990) rang out. This was no ordinary opening number; it was a declaration, an announcement that this would be a night of grandiose emotion and finely crafted musical wizardry. Fish’s voice emerged, rich and commanding, soaring over the intricate tapestry woven by Robin Boult on guitar, Steve Vantsis on bass, Mickey Simmonds on keyboards, Gavin Griffiths on drums, and the spellbinding Elisabeth Antwi on backing vocals. Boult’s guitar swelled and burned, each note slicing through the ether, while Simmonds’ keyboards filled every conceivable gap with celestial flourishes.
Then came ‘Credo’ (Internal Exile, 1991), a pulsing anthem of rebellion and reflection. The bass rumbled like a deep-space transmission, solid and unshakable, while the guitar licked and sizzled around Fish’s words like solar flares against the night sky. Griffiths, seated behind his drum kit like a wizard orchestrating controlled chaos, drove the song forward with unrelenting precision.
With the slickness of an interstellar smuggler flipping switches in the cockpit, the band launched into ‘Big Wedge’ (Vigil in a Wilderness of Mirrors, 1990), a brass-laden beast of satire aimed at capitalist excess. Fish stalked the stage, pointing, gesticulating, his voice dripping with scorn. The guitar riff cut like a buzz saw through a corrupt politician’s campaign poster, while the rhythm section thumped and strutted with unrepentant swagger. A sudden mood shift: ‘Long Cold Day’ (Fellini Days , 2001) arrived like a deep-space anomaly, its bleak intensity creeping through the room. Boult’s guitar lines slithered like something waiting in the shadows, while Griffiths’ drumming pounded like the heartbeat of a doomed planet. Fish’s voice, raw and ferocious, delivered each line as if chiselling it into stone.
Then came ‘Shadowplay’ (Internal Exile, 2019), as haunting and enigmatic as an uncharted nebula. Simmonds’ keys drifted like cosmic dust, while Antwi’s harmonies wove through Fish’s verses, lifting them to ethereal heights. The song expanded and contracted like the very fabric of spacetime, leaving the audience momentarily weightless.
The stark, unsettling narrative of ‘Family Business’ (Vigil in a Wilderness of Mirrors, 1990) followed. A story of domestic horror painted with masterful strokes of guitar and keyboard, this was Fish at his most visceral, his voice cracking under the weight of the tale. The band surged behind him, relentless and unyielding, until the final, shuddering note faded into nothingness.
Then, the behemoth that was ‘Weltschmerz’ (Weltschmerz, 2020). If ever a song felt like staring into the vast, indifferent abyss of existence, this was it. Every instrument layered with exquisite precision, guitars screaming in existential agony, drums pounding like the collapse of a civilization, while Fish lamented the state of the world with the gravity of an omniscient narrator. The war-drum beat of ‘Feast of Consequences’ (Feast of Consequences, 2013) propelled us into battle, a slow-burning march through history’s wreckage. Griffiths’ drumming was relentless, the heartbeat of fallen empires, while Boult’s guitar keened like a mourning spirit over a battlefield.
And then, a moment of delicate fragility—‘Just Good Friends’ (Internal Exile, 1991), with Fish and Antwi weaving heartbreak into harmony, their voices orbiting each other in a dance of longing and regret. The guitar whispered sweet nothings while the keyboards painted the sky in faded watercolors. If ‘Cliché’ (Vigil in a Wilderness of Mirrors, 1990) was a warning against love’s illusions, Fish delivered it as a man who had seen behind the curtain, his voice raw with wisdom and weariness. The band built behind him, constructing a sonic cathedral until it finally erupted in a supernova of pure emotion.
Then, the leviathan: ‘Plague of Ghosts’ (Raingods with Zippos, 1999), an epic, multi-part journey through time, memory, and personal transformation. Beginning with ‘Old Haunts’, the stage was bathed in an eerie glow as Simmonds’ spectral keys drifted into the ether. The band locked in tighter with ‘Digging Deep’, Vantsis’ bass anchoring the spiraling descent. One by one, members stepped away, leaving the composition ever more fragile as it shifted into the jittering chaos of ‘Chocolate Frogs’, a madhouse of frantic guitars and syncopated rhythms. The space expanded again in ‘Waving at Stars’, a celestial awakening where Antwi’s voice soared alongside Fish’s. As ‘Raingods Dancing’ swept through the venue, the last vestiges of turmoil resolved into a shimmering cascade of melody. Then, alone, Fish commanded the final notes of ‘Wake-up Call (Make It Happen)’, the last musician fading into the shadows as his voice echoed into silence.
And then, the encores.
‘Gentlemen’s Excuse Me’ (Vigil in a Wilderness of Mirrors, 1990) was a wry, graceful bow to mortality, a waltz through wistful memories, with Simmonds’ piano sparkling like candlelight in an empty room.
Then, the memories surged forward, the Marillion Trilogy—‘Kayleigh’, ‘Lavender’, and ‘Heart of Lothian’ (Misplaced Childhood, 1985)—a tsunami of nostalgia crashing into Rock City. Boult’s guitar traced every note with devotion, Simmonds’ keyboards conjured mist and memory, and Fish’s voice, aged but unbowed, carried the weight of the past. The audience sang every line, their collective voice an unrelenting force that shook the very foundations of the venue.
A second encore. A last explosion of controlled anarchy—‘Fugazi’ (Fugazi, 1984). A battle cry. A final exorcism. And at last, ‘The Company’ (Vigil in a Wilderness of Mirrors, 1990), a closing toast to camaraderie and time well spent. The ovation was thunderous, a seismic event, a moment of pure reverence. The walls trembled, the air electric with gratitude.
And then, silence. A figure standing before the cosmos of the crowd. A salute. A sigh.
“Thank you, good night, goodbye.”
A pause. A final grin.
And then he was gone, leaving only echoes. A crowd elated but the legend complete. The music drifting forever into the stars.
“So long, and thank you, Fish.”
