199. The Pineapple Thief
Shepherds Bush Empire
30 October 2021
There was a time when being in a packed room full of sweating strangers seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Then came the plague years and, for a long while, even standing near someone at a bus stop felt transgressive. So, walking into Shepherd’s Bush Empire for the first proper gig since lockdown lifted felt... well, weird.
This was The Pineapple Thief’s long-delayed Versions of the Truth tour, postponed, rebooked, postponed again, and finally happening; the musical equivalent of seeing a long-lost friend and not being entirely sure whether to hug them or disinfect them. It had been a year and a half since live music, and I swear you could sense the disbelief in the air: a heady blend of hand sanitiser, nervous laughter, and cautious optimism.
Even the queue outside was oddly polite. People shuffled rather than surged, giving each other the kind of respectful space that would have been unthinkable in 2019. Many wore masks. All had their Covid vaccine credentials at the ready. A few looked quietly dazed. We were all out of practice at being human together.
Inside, the Empire looked glorious, that familiar horseshoe balcony glowing in red light, beer in plastic cups, a sense of occasion and mild peril. The lights dimmed, a cheer went up (slightly tentative, like a rehearsal cheer), and then there they were: Bruce Soord and company, stepping into the light like returning astronauts, blinking but ready.
From the opening chords of “Versions of the Truth”, it was clear they’d used the downtime wisely. This wasn’t a band shaking off rust, it was a band who’d spent 18 months bottling quiet rage and yearning, now releasing it in waves. The sound was immaculate: all shimmering guitars, subterranean bass, and Gavin Harrison’s drumming so precise it could probably realign your furniture.
Soord, always the unassuming frontman, looked genuinely moved. “Feels good to be back, doesn’t it?” he said, and the crowd, our first collective shout in what felt like decades, roared its agreement.
The set drew heavily from Your Wilderness and Dissolution, albums that already felt like hymns to isolation even before isolation became government policy. “In Exile” hit harder than ever, its refrain (“I’m not going back, I’m not going back”) echoing around the room like an unintended pandemic anthem. “Threatening War” and “Demons” glowed, vast and mournful, building and collapsing in those intricate crescendos The Pineapple Thief have made their signature.
There was something profoundly communal about the whole thing. Not the usual mosh-pit communion of spilled lager and body heat, but something quieter: shared awe, shared release. People smiled at each other mid-song, as if to confirm that yes, this really was happening. Live music had returned, and we were still capable of feeling joy.
Midway through “Someone Pull Me Out”, I realised I hadn’t checked my phone once. For the first time in eighteen months, I was completely present, lost in sound, surrounded by strangers, and perfectly content to be nowhere else.
By the time the final notes of “The Final Thing on My Mind” faded into the rafters, you could feel it: the collective exhale of an audience who’d been holding their breath for far too long. The applause was thunderous, not just for the band, but for the simple fact of being here at all.
Outside, the night air still felt strange on our faces. The city hummed softly. Life, it seemed, was resuming, maybe tentatively, maybe temporarily, but gloriously, nonetheless.