Perspective One: Esme Chen

I have been a devoted Florence + The Machine fan since Lungs, and her musical evolution has mirrored my own growing up. More recently, through Dance Fever and Everybody Scream, her work has accompanied my herculean journey into spirituality and womanhood. So, on 8 February, attending her Everybody Scream tour as a VIP at Birmingham’s BP Pulse Live felt less like a concert and more like a rite of passage: part spiritual rejuvenation, part transcendence — and, controversially, my first time joining a coven. Luckily for me, I am also a huge fan of the opening act, Paris Paloma, which made the evening all the more unforgettable. 

The arena was sold out and strikingly diverse. Teenagers stood shoulder-to-shoulder with older fans, proving the band’s ability to cast its spell across generations. Florence Welch herself is pure magic. Even before she appeared, the pre-show playlist steeped the space in folkloric unease: Buffy Sainte-Marie’s God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot drifted through the arena, followed by Kate Bush’s Waking the Witch — an invocation as much as a warm-up. The ritual had begun. I sang and danced to Paloma’s Hunter and Good Girl, and when she closed with Labour, the crowd erupted in collective rage and catharsis. Then came the waiting: that electric, breath-held silence before Florence appears. As I’ve written before about the anticipation for Everybody Scream’s release, I didn’t think anything could rival that feeling — but waiting for Florence to rise from beneath the stage somehow did.

Opening with the album’s title track, Everybody Scream, was a masterstroke. The show fused the contemporary spectacle of arena pop with the precision and symbolism of high-end theatre. Florence emerged in white, rising from beneath the stage like an apparition, while her witch choir, dressed in black, stood in stark opposition. What has always set Florence’s music apart is her ability to merge folklore, witchcraft and rock, and here that alchemy was made physical. As an avid lover of folk horror on screen, some moments felt less like a concert and more like a cinematic ritual. The Witch Choir — four women clad in black — moved with exaggerated, uncanny gestures, their faces contorting between ecstasy and possession. They enacted rituals, writhed in unison, and mirrored the album’s themes of feminine rage and collective release. It was unsettling, beautiful, and utterly hypnotic.

When Florence sang Cosmic Love — the song that means the most to me, she prefaced it with a short speech about communal suffering and shared pain. Around me, people cried openly. When the band then launched into Never Let Me Go, the block I was sitting in seemed to collectively break; strangers hugged, hands reached across rows, and grief and joy blurred together. Florence possesses a fae-like otherworldliness — elusive, luminous — and she held the entire arena in a trance.

The encore, Dog Days Are Over, was a final act of communion. Florence asked the audience to put their phones away and dance our hearts out, and for once, we listened. Thousands of bodies moved as one. Despite the scale of the arena, the moment felt intimate, almost secret — as if the coven had finally closed its circle. Another highlight was Heaven Is Here, a moment of pure folk-horror theatre. As the lights dimmed, the catwalk glowed, and Florence appeared to float, suspended in an eerie illusion. The image recalled horror films centred on female power and persecution, such as Suspiria and The Witch, where womanhood is framed as both sacred and terrifying.

This was the most theatrical show I have ever seen — including previous Florence + The Machine gigs. The elliptical lighting, the placement of the stage, the on-screen visuals, and the ritualistic choreography combined to present Florence not just as a performer, but as a figure of spiritual feminine power. It worked because it felt sincere rather than gimmicky. This concert meant everything to me: the band’s evolution has traced my own journey into womanhood, and on this night, that journey felt shared with thousands of others. I left the arena exhilarated, slightly haunted, and grateful to have been part of the coven.

Perspective Two: Izzy Lee

On the 8th of February, I had the amazing opportunity to witness Florence and The Machine live when her Everybody Scream European tour came to Birmingham’s BP Pulse Arena, a dream me and a home friend had been attempting to realise for years. To further enhance our excitement, she was supported by the wonderful Paris Paloma who debuted unreleased songs, as well as bringing out fan favourites which really set the mood for the evening to come. The pairing was an ingenious one, their on-stage aesthetics perfectly encapsulating the other-timely mood of the tour in a way that felt almost as if someone had pulled them both straight from a renaissance painting. 

When it came time for Florence to take the stage, we were met with darkness, punctuated by shrill screams and the introduction of an important aspect of the night – 4 backup dancers, dressed as demons, who would circle and support Florence throughout the evening in a way that (along with truly incredible set production that I will get to later) made the night feel fully immersed in a world Florence had created for us – think the seven circles of hell, but with a hopeful note. Florence chose to open the night with her titular song Everybody Scream, but made a point not to bombard the tour with the lesser-known tracks of her new album, rather electing to cherry-pick songs from different albums that fit the atmosphere of the world she had created throughout the arena. 

Florence made the interesting choice to perform on a stage that protruded into the crowd like a catwalk, attributing a more intimate feeling to an arena show. Even those who couldn’t get right to the front of the crowd still had a chance to get up close and personal with Florence, an opportunity she relished as she often entered the crowd and sung directly to fans whilst holding their hands. She was particularly unhappy if they filmed during this, a notion she carried through to the second portion of her performance of her hit Dog Days are Over, arguing we would never get the same experience from a video as we would if we were present. I have to admit she was right, towards the end of the set, me and my friends let loose and danced as if our lives depended on it – in the words of Florence, ‘I hear the music, I feel the beat, and for a moment when I’m dancing I’m free’. She supported her songs with stunning production design and choreography on a suspended rectangular screen above the stage which really increased the immersion (this was particularly effective during Seven Devils, the tour being her first live performance of the song since 2012) in which multiple Florences sang the song in unison as dancers circled her and emerged from smoke. 

I adored this tour, and feel extremely lucky to have been able to see her live given how expensive live shows have become. It was equally extremely satisfying to see Florence Welch still have the same adoration she had as a younger artist, perhaps signifying that female artists have less to fear of aging and irrelevancy than they did in the past – in the words of Florence’s new song One of the Greats, ‘It’s funny how men don’t find power very sexy, so this one’s for the ladies. Do I drive you crazy?’. In answer to your question Florence, yes. For your ability to inhabit both power and vulnerability, intensity and grace on stage, you have my immense respect.  

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