The Moroccan Lounge on a Tuesday night felt less like a venue and more like a listening room. The crowd held back from the stage, quiet and reverent, like introverts with oversized hearts who knew they were about to be unraveled by songs.

The evening opened with Lucy Clearwater, a wood-elf of a folk singer whose lullaby-like voice wrapped around the room with kindness. Accompanied by a guitarist who played with eyes closed and full of feeling, their set felt like a peaceful walk through the woods. Acoustic melodies lifted the crowd into someplace softer, calmer. The room was silent, mesmerized, until the final song — a sing-along blessing that bordered on Enya, where the whole crowd became part of the band.

Even Lucy's guitarist drew curiosity from gear lovers, with pedals that gave away years of careful experimenting. After the set, he confessed he'd only been asked that morning to join, and grinned as he praised Lucy's clear voice, the kind of tone that cuts through and stays with you.

Then came Martin Luke Brown, dressed in his unofficial uniform: long white socks, baggy jorts, a loose blue shirt, and his now-iconic bucket hat and mustache. The crowd, mostly women, hadn’t exactly followed the night’s "bucket hat and mustache" dress code he posted on Instagram, but Martin seemed more amused than anything.

From the first notes, you could tell this wasn't just a gig — it was a performance woven together. The transitions between songs were seamless, like one long breath. He joked about it too, proud of how smooth the flow felt. One moment he was making the room laugh, the next he was hitting them with songs that tore straight into the heart, while calling that the "chill section" (fully knowing it was the sad part).

"walking on air" was a highlight — Martin counted in "1, 2… 1, 2, 3" before launching into a jazzy, feather-light keyboard solo that had the entire room cheering and dancing. His joy was infectious, and when the lights dimmed after, he quipped, "Can't see anything but sure beautiful people." When the lighting engineer turned them back up, his timing was perfect: "Oh no, never mind," he cracked, to laughter across the room.

But Martin's humor never undercut the depth. He balanced laughter with heartbreak, often within a single breath. He warned the crowd with lines like, "You feeling good? Not for long!" before slipping into a sadder song, or joking, "This is a fucking sad song" before delivering "alright ?" stripped bare, just him and an acoustic guitar. When he welcomed "the boys" — his bandmates on drums and bass — back to the stage after, the intimacy of the moment lingered.

He involved the crowd constantly: leading them into high "ooohs" during "see you later x," and then jokingly assigning the low "ooohs" to "the fellas." At one point, he even invited fans to choose a mystery song off his setlist via set.live, proof that he wasn’t just performing for the audience, he was performing with them.

One of the most emotional peaks came when the crowd requested "this love's gonna go nowhere." Martin told the story: a seven-year relationship, an engagement, a band, and then the collapse of both. He laughed as he said it, but then removed his in-ears, stood alone with just an acoustic guitar, and sang straight into the quiet. It was raw enough to make eyes well up across the room.

Even when he talked about darker themes, he spun them into connection. Before "animal," he explained his therapist once called it a trauma response — but Martin insisted it was a happy trauma response, asking the crowd to validate him with laughter and dancing. 

He closed the main set with "hello !" — which he explained was the story of his life, from death to rebirth to transformation — before returning for an encore of three songs that had everyone singing and dancing together. 

There were surprises too: a spontaneous proposal in the crowd, met with cheers and slow dancing. Limited-run vinyls (only 46 copies, the most he could fit on the plane!). And heartfelt thanks to his manager George, who he credited as his day-one supporter.

What struck me most about Martin wasn't just the balance of comedy and sadness, or the precision of his performance, but the way he carried it all: keeping his head up, finding joy, and letting even his half-smile radiate resilience. Dancing, joking, and reaching for connection while singing through heartbreak, grief, and transformation — that's what made the night unforgettable.

Thank you for the music!

— Lio