Mike and The Mechanics at the Usher Hall, Edinburgh – 5th March 2025 – A Gig Review

5th March 2025 0 By Jon Deaux

On the 5th of March, in the Year of the Unreasonably Treacherous Staircase, the Usher Hall in Edinburgh became the setting for a spectacle of melody, nostalgia, and the indomitable will of a man who had recently lost a battle with Gravity but refused to surrender the war.

Mike Rutherford, the architect of The Mechanics, had found himself at the mercy of that most persistent of physical laws, and, as is Gravity’s custom, it had enforced its authority with a rather unforgiving shove. With a hip now held together by medical sorcery, Rutherford spent the night in dignified repose upon a sturdy seat, guitar in hand, resembling a sage on a mountain dispensing wisdom in the form of expertly plucked strings. Occasionally, he took up the bass, a subtle but pointed reminder that no mere injury could halt a true musician.

The audience, seasoned veterans of life’s little ambushes, saw no reason to complain. If anything, there was something altogether fitting about a man who had spent decades shaping the soundscape of rock now reigning over it from his throne.

The great machine roared to life with Beggar on a Beach of Gold, its sweeping melodies washing over the hall like a tide of long-lost memories. Andrew Roachford’s voice rang clear and commanding, while Tim Howar bounded about with such enthusiasm that it seemed he was compensating for Rutherford’s seated presence by moving enough for both of them. The crowd, well aware they were in the hands of professionals, relaxed into the experience, nodding along in that universal agreement that yes, this was very good indeed.

Then came the classics, arriving with all the inevitability of a magical incantation that had been cast too many times to be ignored. All I Need Is a Miracle had the audience swaying in ways that suggested they’d once been magnificent dancers—or, at the very least, still believed they could be if the right tune played and the ale flowed freely. The Genesis tributes—Land of Confusion, Follow You Follow Me, Invisible Touch, and I Can’t Dance—were received with the sort of reverence usually reserved for ancient scrolls or the particularly good stories told at the local tavern. The latter, of course, carried a touch of irony, given Rutherford’s current artistic reliance on the sitting arts—yet, as any wizard will tell you, some of the most powerful spells are conjured when one is seated and not moving an inch.

The Usher Hall, that ancient and revered cathedral of sound, ensured every note cut through the air as sharp and precise as a freshly honed blade. Each chord resonated with a depth that suggested even the venerable stone walls could not help but hum along in approval. The lighting, that often overlooked sorcerer’s apprentice of live performance, enveloped the band in a swirling kaleidoscope of colors, as though the music itself had sprouted wings and taken flight—ethereal, magical, and as captivating as a wizard conjuring wonders from the ether. This luminous spell worked its charm particularly well for the new tracks Song For Me, Song For You, and East and West of the Sun, weaving their enchantments over the audience, who could do nothing but submit to the melodic allure.

Of course, that most heart-tugging of melodies made its inevitable appearance in the form of The Living Years, that song so steeped in sentiment it could melt even the most steadfast of hearts. Even the most stoic members of the audience found themselves afflicted by the sudden appearance of watery eyes—though, as is tradition, no one admitted to such a thing. The air grew thick with mutterings of “just a touch of dust” and “curse these blasted allergies,” but anyone with a sense of rhythm knew what was truly at work: the music had wormed its way into their souls, and the evidence was plainly written in every misty-eyed glance.

Just when the night seemed to have reached its emotional peak, an unexpected moment of unfiltered joy unfolded. A lone audience member, gripped by the spirit of the music (or perhaps just a particularly strong beverage), made his way down the aisle, performing an enthusiastic rendition of the I Can’t Dance walk. This was swiftly followed by a thunderous rendition of Cuddly Toy, Roachford’s voice practically lifting the roof, while even the most arthritic knees in the room attempted something resembling movement.

And then, as all things must, the night drew to its close. The Mechanics took their bow, and Rutherford, with the aid of a pair of crutches, rose from his seat—not as a man confined, but as a performer who had, even from a chair, commanded the stage with unwavering presence.

A night of resilience, revelry, and proof that a true legend need not stand to be larger than life. Music, after all, cares little for physics—it simply plays on.