There are few better ways to spend a Wednesday night than submerged in a storm of British rock ‘n’ roll. At Irving Plaza this past week, The Darkness delivered exactly that – an overflowing platter of guitar theatrics and five octaves of wild, eclectic vocal fire. They’re one of those rare bands you could watch a dozen times and still leave stunned, and New York City was truly lucky to see them reclaim the stage once more.

I first saw The Darkness two years ago, during the 20th anniversary run of Permission to Land. That album – raucous, glittering, unashamed – didn’t just introduce them to the world; it carved out a cult that followed with ferocity. The moment Justin Hawkins strutted on stage in a flash of sequins, shrieking into the night while guitars crackled like lighting, I was caught. By the next morning, their entire discography lived in my headphones. Permission to Land went quadruple platinum for good reason: it was both homage and upheaval, proof that rock’s heart was still beating, just in tighter pants and higher notes.

The band’s arc has been anything but smooth. After their sophomore album, One Way Ticket to Hell… and Back, Hawkins stepped away to battle addiction – an act of courage that paused a career burning fast. He spoke later of creative exhaustion, of needing distance, and he chased sparks through solo projects and side bands. Their official return in 2011, though, felt like a thunderclap. They set up their own label, released Last of Our Kind, and refused to compromise. Tours, records, cancellations, resurrections – by 2021, even a pandemic couldn’t mute them for long. Now, in 2025, Hawkins is 19 years sober with a passion for this project that is profound, his fervor belies his seasoned age on paper.

When I saw The Darkness at Terminal 5 in 2023, I swore I’d bring my father next time. He’s a lifelong musician, a former composer, and The Darkness seemed built for ears like his. Because this isn’t radio polish or overproduced fluff; this is rock grown straight from the root. Onstage, they’re half pantomime, half cathedral vigor. For me, a guitarist, the solos are pure hypnosis: elastic, mischievous, impossible to ignore. The bass hums like a second heartbeat. Rufus Tiger Taylor hammers the kit with mathematic precision yet somehow sings too, reminding you drummers can command melody as well as rhythm. And then Hawkins: otherworldly, unpredictable, capable of climbing notes you didn’t know existed. His falsetto doesn’t just pierce; it lifts you out of your own skin.

Irving Plaza’s intimacy only magnified it. That room always feels like home, and though The Darkness could fill an arena with presence alone, there’s something unforgettable about seeing them press into a space where the walls almost vibrate with you. The crowd sang every word, from graying veterans of the early 2000s scene to kids on their parents shoulders, wide-eyed. For once, the older generation out-danced the youth, bodies trashing, grinning, refusing stillness. Phones stayed pocketed. All eyes stayed fixated.

“Barbarian” landed like a war cry, its solos bending the night open. “My Only” gave Rufus Tiger Taylor the microphone, his voice carrying while Hawkins slipped into harmonies that shimmered like unexpected grace notes. A cover of Celine Dion’s balladry – recast in crunching guitars – proved how easily they twist drama into theater. The whole night was built on those juxtapositions: earnest and absurd, raw and ornate, grounded and extraterrestrial.

Some bands sound better live than in the studio, and The Darkness is chief among them. Their records are sharp, crafted, immortal, but the stage is their natural state: sweat, sequins, ringing ears, and no escape. It’s not nostalgia; it’s proof that real rock ‘n’ roll doesn’t age, it just grows sharper. Their newest record, Dreams on Toast, released this past March, stands as evidence. They’re not relics. They’re survivors, still burning bright enough to light up a Wednesday in Manhattan, still reminding us why we fall in love with music in the first place.

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