At this exact time a year ago, I stepped on stage for the most significant performance of my life.
Wonderland — Live in Concert.
It wasn’t just a gig. It was the physical manifestation of a dream I’d been carrying since childhood. A sold-out room. A live band. A full visual world. A real-life Wonderland built in sound, light, colour, and feeling. It was the album I’d spent years making, finally breathing in a room full of people.
Every detail had been shaped with care... the setlist, the staging, the balloon sculpture, the projections, the fog, the cocktails, the atmosphere. It was immersive. Joyful. Surreal. The kind of night you don’t forget.
The most magical night of my life.
And yet… I have almost nothing from it.
The audio recording failed. A technical error meant the sound couldn’t be used. I found out the next day, and one of the highest highs I’ve ever known collapsed into heartbreak.
It wasn’t just a file. It was a piece of my history. Future showreels. Moments I’ll never hear again. Thousands of pounds invested in capturing a milestone. Months of thought, energy, and creative devotion.
Gone.
The footage exists, but the sound skips and fractures. There’s no clean record of what the room actually held. I remember feeling like the night had been muted after the fact. Like something that had been loud and alive had been turned down to silence. And the hardest part was this: I hadn’t done anything wrong.
What followed has been long and draining... conversations, delays, processes I never wanted to be part of. It’s been a year of learning that sometimes protecting your work means walking roads you wish you didn’t have to.
But this post isn’t about blame. It’s about holding something gently that still hurts.
Because the truth is... the loss is real. I’m still grieving the recording that should exist. The version of that night I thought I’d always have. But another truth lives alongside it.
That night still happened. The applause happened. The laughter happened. The voices singing back to me happened. The feeling in my chest as I stood in that world... that happened.
A moment doesn’t disappear just because it wasn’t captured properly. Sometimes the most important things only live in memory. In the body. In the people who were there.
I’m trying, a year on, to hold both truths at once...
Something was lost.
And something beautiful still remains.