78. Anathema
Winchester Cathedral
6 March 2015
Here’s the thing no one tells you about sudden loss, when you’re the eldest child, you don’t get to grieve straight away. You become the de facto administrator, Chief Mourning Officer. There are calls to make, forms to fill, and a sort of emotional triage to perform, in which your own sorrow gets boxed up until further notice.
When my dad died, hot on the heels of my brother-in-law passing, because apparently the universe wanted to double down, I did what eldest children have done for centuries: I cracked on. I made the calls. I sorted the paperwork. I put my grief on ice and stood on the edge holding the receipts whilst everyone else collapsed into their catharsis.
The problem with delayed grief is that, when you finally get around to unpacking it, everyone else has moved on. They've lit their candles and toddled off down the road of healing; meanwhile, you're just opening the lid on the box and no one likes a latecomer.
Which brings me, weirdly and perfectly, to Anathema. Specifically, their album Weather Systems, an album that, for reasons unknown, soundtracked the exact moment I finally let myself feel something larger. Internal Landscapes, Untouchable, two tracks that didn’t just hit me, they moved in, rearranged the furniture, and started reading my grief back to me with better language than I could ever manage.
When I found out Anathema were doing an acoustic set in Winchester Cathedral, I didn’t hesitate. My mate had a new car that needed an excuse for an outing, hotels were booked, and we had ourselves a road trip on our hands.
Now, I’ve always been a sucker for acoustic reimagining, the kind of set that peels back all the studio trickery and leaves you with raw emotion, with hopefully no awkward glockenspiels. Think MTV Unplugged but sadder and with better acoustics. This was very much that. In the grand gothic echo chamber of Winchester Cathedral, Anathema’s songs weren’t just played, they unfolded. Dense tracks became intimate laments. Ambient layers became whispered confessions, and with those vaulted ceilings, the reverb had reverb.
It wasn’t a gig. It was a quiet, reverent moment, where sound, space, and silence all conspired to break you gently. And yes, right at the start of the encore, they played Internal Landscapes, and I cried. Not, big ugly sobs, just a few tears. Just enough. Just what I needed.
Music does that sometimes. It sneaks in through the cracks you didn’t know were still open and puts a hand on your shoulder. That night, in a candlelit cathedral, with a band I never expected to love, I opened the box properly. And for the first time in months, it didn’t feel like I was doing it alone.