Last Tuesday at Stary Maneż, John Porter walked onstage with that trademark calm, the kind only artists with real mileage can wear. No swagger, no theatrics, just a man who knows exactly what he can do. And thank whatever musical saints you believe in, because the set burned fast and bright.
From the opening chord, Porter guided the room into that rare place where old school rock rubs shoulders with country tinted roots and a wandering, deeply human strain of soul. The songs from “Helicopters” carried all their history, but they never felt fossilised. Instead, they snapped, breathed and moved as if he had penned them only the night before, sparks still fresh on the page. The whole show had that kind of pulse.
Stary Maneż is a venue built for evenings like this. Warm lights, wooden tones, that natural hum of expectation. Porter’s band filled the space with ease, wrapping themselves around his voice with instinctive care and giving the songs the emotional weight they deserved.
And then there was Porter’s voice. Still rich, still textured with that human crackle and still capable of flipping from gentle storyteller to weathered rock shaman in a single breath. He sang like someone who has hauled these songs through 45 years and refuses to let them gather dust.
Because what Porter gave us was soul, pure and unfiltered. That rare surge of spirit that ambushes you mid-song, settles deep in your ribs, and refuses to leave long after you have wandered back into the cold dark Polish night.
If this tour is meant to honour “Helicopters” hitting 45, last Tuesday made one thing gloriously clear, anniversaries are meaningless unless the music still breathes. And on this night, every note throbbed with life.
A tight show, a lively band, an artist playing with fire in his bones. Too brief, yes. But unforgettable.
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