The Divine Comedy
Wolverhampton Civic Hall
Friday 17th October 2025

Pop music’s resident wit and erstwhile fop provides Wolverhampton with something for the weekend. Sam Lambeth reviews.

At the Civic Hall’s smaller sister venue, the Wulfrun, the punky energy of Nova Twins is spilling out onto the streets of Wolverhampton. In the Civic itself, it’s a much more genteel affair. Seats are laid out in the stalls, where people would usually be moshing and letting their limbs fly. Couples laugh and clink plastic glasses of wine. Some crack open big bags of Kettle Chips as if they’re just about to put down a picnic blanket in a bucolic countryside retreat. Suffice to say, it’s not your average music gig. But then again, The Divine Comedy are not your average band.

The musical moniker of singer-songwriter (Father) Neil Hannon, the Londonderry outfit have long stood out in the world of indie for their audacious whimsy and theatrical bombast. The urbane Hannon, arriving onstage donning a trilby that makes him resemble an anachronistic TV detective, revels in it. He props himself up on a miniature wooden table to appreciate his robust five-piece band. He eschews the usual rote runthroughs of said band members’ names by ushering out a drinks trolley and whipping them up margaritas. He even has his own butler (of sorts), a dapper roadie called Alistair, who acts as Hannon’s man Friday.

All of this plays into the band’s style of droll, cinematic sweeps and knowing bon mots. It’s there in spades when it comes to the big hits – the bawdy orchestrations of Something for the Weekend has everyone on their feet, even the old ‘uns who look aggrieved to have to get up for anything other than a toilet break. It’s a fun, effervescent romp and a firm reminder of Hannon’s halcyon days as a raffish cad, something that remains on the vintage filmic fantasy of Becoming More Like Alfie. Earlier on, the chugging, reference-heavy At the Indie Disco has many in the seats fondly remembering when this same venue used to host sticky-floored club night Blast Off.

As funny and acerbic as these songs are – often, it’s like a song equivalent of watching the sitcom Frasier, a show Hannon unsurprisingly loves – they only display one side of the Northern Irish wordsmith. Like Alan Bennett and Morrissey, Hannon is no slouch when it comes to putting ordinary lives under the microscope.

He has an aptitude for chronicling the frustrations and limitations of the old, the working-class, the beaten and the jaded. Norman and Norma is a resonant tale of a romance grown long dormant. The faded socialite in the delicate A Lady of a Certain Age is a sympathetic, nuanced study in dashed glory. Absent Friends soars without losing its sense of pathos. Meanwhile, the breezy Mother Dear and Invisible Thread examine familial beats in a way that, in a lesser songwriter’s hands, could have been cloying and mawkish. 

The Divine Comedy’s latest opus, Rainy Sunday Afternoon, saw Hannon take stock of a lot of heavy subject matter, from his father’s passing to his own realisations about mortality as a fiftysomething man. The title track has a appropriately wistful, daydream feel, there’s an emotional heft in the jazz-tinged, sombre The Last Time I Saw the Old Man, while The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter is downcast and brooding. 

As one can imagine, Hannon is a charming and wry host. When he plays a new song in the encore, he scoffs incredulously at his own chutzpah. He chuckles upon hearing “the angriest request for a song” he’s ever heard when a fan rather vehemently demands a certain track. He’s also, vocally, in fine fettle, stretching to wonderful effect on Bang Goes the Knighthood (“a song about the good old days when politicians had no shame”) and the contemplative, minimal Songs of Love…yep, the theme from Father Ted. 

Songs like National Express and Tonight We Fly are transcendent, built on big hooks and clever couplets that really demonstrate Hannon’s unbridled talent. As Hannon jives around onstage unashamedly, the crowd bask in he and his band’s playful, fanciful tunes…and when people are too busy enjoying themselves to request My Lovely Horse, you know it’s been a damn good gig.

~

The Divine Comedy can be found on Facebook and via their website.

All words by Sam Lambeth. Sam is a journalist and musician. More of his work for Louder Than War is available on his archive. You can find his music on Spotify.

All photos by Paul Reynolds. He can be found on Instagram.