The screen pulled us in before a single chord struck the air. We were gliding through a CGI vision of Thatcher-era London: grimy alleyways, flashing red lights, a shadow of Eddie lurking around every corner.
The intro to “Murders in the Rue Morgue” crept in after the thunderous buildup of “The Ides of March”, and despite the band’s much-publicized plea, the crowd lit up like a suburban backyard on Christmas Eve.
Phones up, lenses out. You can ask, but in 2025, memories are measured in story views.
And then – drums. A sudden burst. The crowd surged, and Iron Maiden, fifty years old and somehow still brimming with revolutionary zeal, exploded into a four-song homage to their Di’Anno years.
“Wrathchild”, “Killers”, “Phantom of the Opera”, and the aforementioned Rue Morgue felt more like a time slip than a tribute. It was the Maiden of clenched fists and Ruskin Arms gigs, the Maiden of leather jackets and anti-everything fury. For a few brief minutes, it felt like 1981 all over again.
I’m only sorry Paul wasn’t there to share it.
Was The Concert Worth the Hype?
I’ll admit it, I was skeptical.
Coming in, I expected rarities, forgotten deep cuts, maybe the long-dreamt-of sophomore live rendition of “The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner” or a surprise resurrection from “No Prayer for the Dying”.
Instead, we got a best-of set. A beautiful, bombastic, over-polished best-of set, sprinkled generously with epics. “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”, “Powerslave”, “Seventh Son of a Seventh Son”, tracks that once terrified gatekeepers and journalists with their length and ambition.
Nostalgia is a funny thing; it sneaks up on you.
As the band unfurled one classic after another, I found myself slipping back into the first days I fell in love with metal. These were the songs that sat at the top of my burned CDs and kept me up past high school nights.
Even as Bruce’s voice, especially in the latter half, began to show the strain of years and miles, that old fire still flickered in my chest.
From my perch on the side of the stadium, I watched men and women well into their fifties dancing like teenagers, their voices hoarse with devotion.
I also saw the flipside, swaying drunks, swift paramedic interventions (hats off to the public services in Vienna), the kind of alcohol-fueled haze that makes you wonder if some came for the music or just for the single tagged Facebook picture before even their friends lost track of their whereabouts.
It’s the eternal Maiden paradox that has always plagued my experiences at their shows: the band that made metal mainstream enough to gather tribes, but too big to choose which ones.
What About the New Iron Maiden Stage Setup?
But let’s talk about the stage. Or, more precisely, the screen. This tour marks Iron Maiden’s most dramatic visual transformation to date, which I’ve covered in more detail in this article.
Gone are the massive, physical Eddies, the World War II plane replicas, the shifting gothic cathedrals of past tours. In their place: a high-resolution LED monolith and a barrage of cinematic animation.
During “Hallowed Be Thy Name”, the screen told a moving tale of a condemned man’s walk to the gallows and subsequent resurrection. “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” became a literal cinematic voyage through digital waters, storms, and all.
It’s beautiful. It’s bold. And it’s… distracting.
There were moments I realized I was watching the screens more than the band.
That’s a strange feeling at a Maiden gig.
For all its grandeur, the spectacle felt less lived-in. Less dangerous.
This isn’t to say it didn’t work; visually, it was a triumph, but it made the show feel curated, even choreographed, in a way that jarred against Maiden’s once ragged, live-wire energy.
It’s hard not to feel conflicted watching a band beg fans not to watch the show through screens while surrounding themselves with bigger ones.
So, should I See Iron Maiden in 2025?
In the end, Maiden remain a force. But like all icons, they now carry the weight of their own legacy. The LED walls might dazzle a new generation, but for some of us, the magic lives in the smoke, the sweat, the towering puppets, and the primal scream of “The Number of the Beast”.
Last night proved the simplest moments still pack the heaviest punch.
In that name, “Killers” deserves another spin today.
