I was doing FOH (Front of house, sound engineering) at a charity gig in the Millennium Arena, Battersea Park London for cancer research a few years ago.

I was doing FOH (Front of house, sound engineering) at a charity gig in the Millennium Arena, Battersea Park London for cancer research a few years ago.

In the evening when the sun had gone down, they turned off the floodlights for the show finale and lit hundreds of candles all the way around the track for a special lap of honor by people who had survived cancer. Some were walking, some running, some in wheelchairs, some being carried. The soft glow of candlelight created an atmosphere of reverence and hope that’s difficult to describe.

The last act was this Italian female opera singer with the most extraordinary voice I’ve ever heard. I lit her up with a single par-can stage light and carefully adjusted the volume of the PA system. Her voice was pure and powerful, carrying emotion that transcended language. As she began to sing, something magical happened.

The sound started to bounce around the residential tower blocks that surround the stadium, creating an almost ethereal acoustic effect, like some massive surround sound system. And then… people started to appear on their balconies to listen. First one or two, but then literally hundreds of residents emerged from their homes, drawn by the music.

It was as if this opera singer had some kind of magnetic energy that was pulling everybody out into the night air. Silhouettes appeared in windows, figures stood motionless on balconies, all facing toward the arena, all listening in perfect stillness to this voice that seemed to speak directly to the human spirit.

The combination of elements was breathtaking—the circle of candlelight, the survivors making their way around the track, the lone singer illuminated by a single beam of light, and now an impromptu audience of hundreds watching from their homes. The music connected everyone in that moment, creating a community out of strangers.

It was a truly awe-inspiring experience, and as I myself lost both of my parents to cancer in 1998-99, it was very close to the heart for me. I must admit, I found myself overwhelmed with emotion behind the mixing desk, witnessing this spontaneous coming-together of humanity.

In my years of working sound at various venues, I’ve experienced many powerful moments, but nothing has ever compared to the end of that night. It reminded me why music matters, why we gather together, and how art can help us process even our deepest grief.

I really can’t put into words just how profound the end of that night was. Some experiences simply transcend language. But I carry it with me still—a perfect moment of connection, remembrance, and hope.