Is it worth going to see Abba Voyage in London?

Plus: A film and documentary to watch this week.

Dress code: Acres of flammable polyester.

Ambiance: Bright multicoloured lights, wooden walls with a ski chalet feel. Mojitos on tap.

Merchandise: Branded teatowels, woollen hats and scarves, enamel cups.

Audience median age: Late 50s.

Audience energy: Fizzing with giddy anticipation.

Welcome to Abba Voyage…

I’ve had ‘write newsletter about Abba gig in London’ on my to-do list for a few weeks. It took a while to get to it for a few reasons, mostly last-stages work on the Aforementioned Big Project (news on that imminently, sorry for being a juicy dangler). I had a little time to begin this newsletter yesterday evening, on a train trip back to Dublin, where I also - downer alert!!! - began thinking about the other reasons why I hadn’t sat down to write anything.

The annoying thing is I realised it was partly to do with this grief-inflected life stage I’m in; how some days and weeks feel ok, normal even. Then there are other days where ‘normality’ feels dull and uncomfortable, where it’s hard to find the point to things or run towards the good stuff. Thankfully that’s not every day, but it can lead you to race past the happy memories and ruminate more on the bad.

I suspect grief leaches the colour out of beautiful moments and so in retrospect they can seem bleached and boring. It’s a cruel trick. But if I look past this, I can see the glorious night we had at Abba Voyage those weeks ago. And let me tell you - the Abba Voyage gig deserves to be written about, because it was a clutch of hours full of joy and expansion, giggly hyper-real emotion and epic melodies. It took me out of the mental mire and into my body for a few hours.

Plus: I got to wear a bright green jumpsuit.

Anyway, let’s start with the basics: the Abba Voyage gig is not really by Abba. It’s a simulacrum of reality, a digital rendering of the band magicked up by Industrial Light and Magic (the visual FX company founded by George Lucas in the mid-70s). The ‘band’ ‘performs’ at a purpose-built arena, near the charmingly twee Pudding Mill Lane station (oh, London!). The show cost millions, and those millions need to be made back, so it’s been running for months, its run extended a few times. In fact, it could potentially run until 2026, when the arena site is earmarked for housing construction.

Before my friend Lauren and I went, I had assumed that the performance would be some sort of hologram akin to what I remembered from watching Star Trek: Next Generation as a teen. I thought the band members would look like they were glowing from the inside, with a golden aura that screamed ‘we’re fake!’. That it would be obvious what was real and what wasn’t. I knew that the band were being referred to as ‘Abbatars’ - digital avatars of Frida, Agnetha, Bjorn and Benny, patron saints of great hair, troubled love affairs and Scandinavian earworms. But I wasn’t prepared for what awaited.

It all felt very, very real: Abba were their 1977 selves, complete with enviable hair flicks and normal skin, pores and all. You could read emotion in their eyes. It was… weird. But, like, enjoyably weird. The sort of weird that meant I repeated several times, ‘isn’t it amazing we live NOW, when we can see things like this happen?!’. It was one of those moments, like first going on the internet, where you’re reminded you are living in an exciting time, where you can experience inventions as they are invented. Lucky you. Lucky us.

There was, though, a small percentage of uncanny valleyness, where my mind was telling me both ‘this is real’ and ‘this is not real’ simultaneously. Occasionally I would notice an infinitesimal gap in reality, where a movement by one of the band, or a facial expression, seemed to betray for a millisecond what was going on. But all you had to do in response was just lean into it, into the fantastic 10-piece live band, the perfect vocals, the wrap-around screens, the visual treats we were given, the surprising lighting displays.

*

We were asked not to take photos or videos, and I felt a flash of annoyance when I realised a bearded guy next to me was not-so-covertly filming the show on his phone. ‘Hey!’ I wanted to shout, like Dustin Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy, ‘We’re watchin’ here!’. It felt rude of him because the gig shouldn’t be spoiled. That said, I can’t spoil it by describing it, honestly. You have to watch it live to experience how simultaneously normal and weird it is.

*

Audience wise, there was a lot of polyester draped around the place - people channelled their youth via cheap flares and glitter eyeshadow. The merch was plentiful: t-shirts with overtly retro or more tasteful designs; enamel cups, warm woollen hats, even tea towels so you can recall your days of freedom while doing the washing up.

The setlist was wall-to-wall bangers - it was like the world’s best cheesy wedding DJ was in charge. And we lapped it up, every giant chorus, every lovesong about crumbling affairs. The interludes where the band ‘talked’ to the audience were sweet and touching, though sometimes corny. It was invigorating to hear so much pop music in a torrent, to be hit with the full impact of the band’s songwriting and storytelling talent, to understand that there’s just enough cheesiness to satisfy most tastes.

The gig offered a joyful, slightly absurd experience. I left feeling like I’d had, in Lauren’s astute words, ‘a serotonin injection’.

*

Zooming out slightly from Abba Voyage, there is a lot to be chewed on regarding a performance like this which has been digitally created. It’s sort of been done before (see Tupac and Roy Orbison), and on the basis of this gig I started wondering if 75-year-old me would witness a digital Radiohead perform in a few decades’ time. I felt an itch of discomfort while thinking of how this sort of gig could become a cynical money grab, a stretching out of a dead person’s career for greedy reasons.

That’s probably in large part why it worked for Abba - they retain a sheen of innocence and purity, despite their juicy backstory. And the crucial thing is, of course, they are alive. They have been involved in the process themselves, and were filmed using motion capture to create their Abbatars. They will actually benefit from what I saw that night in London, so it didn’t feel like we were solely lining other people’s pockets.

But most of all, Abba are a band that encourage goodwill. They’re a band I’ve gone through various phases with, echoing how they’ve been seen culturally (though unlike many people, I’m not really into the Mamma Mia films that much). I definitely thought Abba were too cheesy for me while I was young. But like the greater recognition of their achievements, and the leaning into all the joy they can give, I found myself as an adult with a new appreciation for one of the most iconic pop bands of all time. We probably won’t see their like again - chiefly because if you are a seminal band, people can only ever copy you - and we’re lucky to get a taste of what their 1970s heyday was right now, in 2023. Abba Voyage was like time travel, and who wouldn’t want a taste of that?

Plus, it felt like the crowd, like all Abba fans, would allow them anything. They make us happy. We need that feeling, and we need their music. Thank you, etc.

So, to answer the question I posed at the outset: Yes, it is very much worth it to go see Abba Voyage. Take the serotonin injection if you can get it. (If you’re a subscriber, some more photos of inside the venue - but not of the actual show - after the jump).

Some recommendations:

• Quo Vadis, Aida? is an absolutely heartbreaking film from 2020 on Netflix about a translator during the 1995 Srebrenica Massacre in Bosnia. Jasna Đuričić is outstanding as the focused, under-pressure mother of two (the titular Aida) who desperately tries to find a way to keep her family safe, while acting as a translator for the UN. The film is an indictment of the behaviour of the UN during such a horrific war, but also a sharp testament to parental and familial love. It’s grim but necessary watching.

• Tomorrow is Saturday is a documentary, also on Netflix and on IFI@Home, about the Irish artist and photographer Seán Hillen. Directed by Gillian Marsh, it’s about Hillen reckoning with his personal approach to his work, his Asperger’s diagnosis in his 50s, and how despite being an acclaimed artist, he’s often been broke and unsupported. The doc says a lot about what happens when you’re a talented artist but don’t have the managerial support or nous to help you with the ‘business’ side of things. The insights into Hillen’s childhood in Newry and the impact of the Troubles on his career and personal life really stood out in this for me. I absolutely love collage work and was mortified I wasn’t very familiar with his art.