Empire Of The Sun Ally Pally

I was standing in the crowd, rain dripping off my chin, and I swear I could feel the ghost of a 1920s jazz band warming up backstage. The venue, Alexandra Palace—or “Ally Pally” to the locals—has that effect on you. It’s not just a concert hall; it’s a time machine wrapped in a Victorian drag show, and on this night, Empire of the Sun was about to plug it in.

First, a confession: I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Empire of the Sun are basically a psychedelic pop duo who dress like interdimensional shamans from a Tron-themed Renaissance fair. Their music hits you like a warm, synth-heavy wave, but live—live is a whole other beast. The moment they stepped on stage at Ally Pally, the crowd went from politely curious to frenzied. And I mean that in the best way.

The venue itself steals the show before it even starts.

Ally Pally sits on a hill in north London, looking like a forgotten royal palace that someone decided to turn into a giant tiki bar. The main hall boasts 135 feet of wooden barrel-vaulted ceiling—it’s huge, like a cathedral that forgot its religion and instead booked a laser show. You feel small, but in a good way, like you’ve shrunk and wandered into a music box. Also, the acoustics? Magically weird—sound bounces around until it lands on your ears as a warm, fuzzy hug.

So when Empire of the Sun launched into “Walking on a Dream,” the entire place turned into a glowing ocean of phone lights. I’m not kidding—people were crying, including a guy next to me who claimed he “didn’t even like this song” but had been “emotionally ambushed.” I believed him. That’s the power of the space.

But let’s talk about the band’s antics, because… wow.

Lead singer Luke Steele wears a headpiece that looks like a disco-ball crown mated with a hawk’s nest. He pranced across the stage with the energy of a golden retriever on espresso. At one point, he literally flew—strapped into a harness—hovering over the crowd like a demented angel. The audience roared, and I swear I saw a woman in the balcony applauding with her beer can. True story.

The duo’s blend of electronic beats and 80s stadium rock makes perfect sense in a room that smells like popcorn, old wood, and sweat. You’d think the contrast would clash—like eating caviar with a plastic spoon—but instead it harmonizes. Ally Pally has that magic: it turns the absurd into the sublime.

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Speaking of absurd—the crowd was a character in itself.

I saw a man in his fifties wearing a full glow-in-the-dark astronaut suit, dancing like he’d just landed on the moon. A teenager next to me was wearing a cape made of LED lights. And behind me, two friends were arguing about whether Empire of the Sun’s logo was “a sun or a fried egg with wings.” I didn’t have an answer, but I loved that they cared enough to debate it. That’s Ally Pally for you—a place where everyone’s weird fits right in.

During “High and Low,” the bass vibrated through the floor so hard I felt it in my teeth. Not in a scary way—in that “my bones are dancing” way. The architectural echo added a layer of reverb that made the song feel twice as big. It’s like the building itself became a member of the band. Honestly, I’m pretty sure some of those brick walls were humming along.

Now, the irony: Ally Pally has a notoriously tragic history.

Originally built in 1873 as a public palace for “the people,” it burned down twice and was used as a prisoner-of-war camp in WWI. So yes, this venue has seen real darkness. Yet here we were, screaming along to “We Are the People,” under a canopy of lasers, feeling absolutely invincible. There’s something poetic about that—taking a space that held so much pain and turning it into a temple of joy. Empire of the Sun gets that vibe. Their whole shtick is about transcending the mundane, and Ally Pally is the perfect stage for that.

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Speaking of transcendence, the encore was pure chaos. They came back out, Steele still glowing with sweat, and launched into “Alive.” The whole crowd jumped, and I swear the floor bounced. I’m not exaggerating—the Victorian wooden floor has a spring to it, like a giant trampoline. People were laughing, strangers high-fiving, and for four minutes, we were all part of one sweaty, glittery tribe. I’ve never felt more alive in a building built for the dead.

If you ever get the chance to see a show at Ally Pally, don’t think twice.

It’s not just about the band—it’s about the way the venue chews up the music and spits it back out as something stranger, bigger, and more intimate. Empire of the Sun get that. They leaned into the venue’s quirks, using the long narrow hall to direct the light show like a tunnel into another dimension. And when the final chords faded, we all walked out into the cold London night, still buzzing.

I turned to the crying guy from earlier. He was dabbing his eyes. “Was it worth it?” I asked. He just grinned, a little embarrassed, and said: “Best night of my life, mate. And I wasn’t even into them.” I think that sums it up. Ally Pally plus Empire of the Sun equals a kind of alchemy—part hipster, part sci-fi, all heart. You should go. Bring a friend. And maybe a glowstick. Or, you know, a fried egg with wings.