Cafe Sel et Poivre

Being an ABBA fan for over 50 years, I was slightly apprehensive about seeing the “animated” ABBA Voyage show in London. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? When you’ve loved a band since childhood, you feel a certain protectiveness over their legacy. Over the decades, I’ve seen so many tribute shows where the emphasis was almost entirely on the “camp” or the “tacky”—sequins and platforms played for a laugh—rather than a genuine, warm celebration of the music I’ve lived my life alongside. I didn’t want this to be another caricature. Still, the curiosity won out, and I booked my ticket.

Even though I’d read glowing reviews and friends had spoken so positively, I still worried it would feel “clunky.” There’s a specific kind of uncanny valley with digital figures, and I was skeptical about the concept of having ABBA appear as their contemporary selves but looking 45 years younger. It felt like a technical mountain to climb—could they really capture the soul of the band, or would they just be expensive puppets?

The process itself is fascinating. To create these “ABBAtars,” the band members—now in their 70s—spent weeks in a studio wearing motion-capture suits, performing the entire set. They didn’t just provide the voices; they provided the movement, the mannerisms, and the essence of who they are now to recreate who they were then. They also recorded contemporary interludes where they spoke about their lives. There was a particularly beautiful anecdote from Frida where she paid tribute to her grandmother who raised her. It grounded the high-tech spectacle in a very human reality, reminding us that while the figures on stage were frozen in time, the people who created them have lived full, complex lives.

The technology involved is a massive step up from the “holograms” we’ve seen in the past. Usually, those effects are hit-or-miss; you often have to be in the exact right spot to get the effect, and if you move an inch to the left, the illusion shatters. But this was different. These figures performed alongside a phenomenal 10-piece live band in a purpose-built theatre that felt alive. The “ABBA-rena” itself is a marvel, wrapped in hidden screens and thousands of lights that appeared from nowhere, blurring the line between the physical stage and the digital world.

As a regular concert-goer with mobility needs, the logistics are often more stressful than the show itself. I’ve learned the hard way that not all venues are created equal. My biggest hurdle is usually the fear of being “trapped” in the middle of a long row with limited legroom and no easy exit. It’s a safety issue as much as a comfort one. After a nasty fall at a Sydney theatre about 18 months ago while trying to navigate a cramped row, I’ve become much more proactive.

I wrote to the London organisers ahead of time, explained my situation as a right-leg amputee, and they were absolutely brilliant. They sorted out fantastic seats in a dedicated section and even provided a complimentary companion seat for a friend to ensure I had support if I needed it. When we arrived, I was relieved to find we were in a raised section just above the dance floor. We had a perfectly level view of the stage with absolutely no one blocking our line of sight. Being in a row with other wheelchair users and people with similar needs meant there was a shared understanding of space and pace, which made the whole evening far more relaxing.

With the logistics sorted and a drink in hand, the lights dimmed.

The show was an absolute masterclass in immersion. The highlights were endless, but a few moments really stood out. They used 3D animation for a couple of songs that felt like stepping inside a dream—Eagle was particularly breathtaking, with the visuals soaring as high as the vocals. I also loved the musical reworkings of the classics. There was a gorgeous piano accordion introduction to Thank You for the Music that felt very “Swedish folk,” and an extended chorus ending for The Winner Takes It All that gave the song an even more epic, emotional weight.

Despite the songs being 50 years old and the band members now being in their late 70s and 80s, the show felt completely contemporary. It didn’t feel like a museum piece; it felt like a living, breathing concert. The integration of the entire space was what really did it for me. In most modern stadium concerts, you end up watching a tiny, distant figure on a massive LED screen, which becomes the sole focus of your night. Here, the “screens” were everywhere and nowhere at once. I found myself looking up, down, left, and right—there was always something to see. Even watching the joy of the crowd on the dance floor below was part of the entertainment.

One of the most striking things was the atmosphere in the room. Interestingly, there wasn’t a single person using a mobile phone to film or take selfies. The ban was strictly enforced by the staff, and honestly, it was refreshing. While the official reason is to “preserve the magic” for future audiences, I suspect there’s a technical reason too—phone cameras would likely struggle to capture the depth and light of the avatars, making them look flat or distorted. By taking the phones away, they forced everyone to actually be there, in the moment, experiencing it with their own eyes rather than through a five-inch screen.

As for the holograms themselves? Within ten minutes, I stopped looking for the “trick.” To my eyes, they seemed entirely real. They had the weight, the light, and the presence of human beings. By the time the show reached its finale, I wasn’t thinking about computer code or motion capture; I was just an ABBA fan again, 50 years later, lost in the music. It was a truly wonderful, soul-stirring experience.