I was in Prague and Bratislava. Two concerts that, on paper, should have confirmed the strength of Iron Maiden in their current state. And in some ways, they did. The turnout, the energy of the crowd, the visual production: everything was in place. But when a machine is so perfectly oiled that it no longer generates friction, the ride risks losing meaning. At both shows, I felt a subtle but persistent sensation: that of a flawless mechanism that no longer manages to turn into a ritual. The sound is there, the visual impact is powerful, but the primal heartbeat is missing—the dirty, animalistic vibration that has always set the Maiden apart from every other band of their generation.
The sore spot, the one few dare to name aloud, is the drumming. Apparently, we’ll have to live with that Murders intro as it is. Simon Dawson is not an amateur. It’s clear he studied every detail, that he puts in the effort. But that, more than a virtue, ends up being a cage. His playing is academic, restrained, sometimes almost impersonal. He lacks the nervous elasticity that once made the band’s rhythm section an unhinged force, able to push the group beyond itself. It’s not about mistakes—those are part of the game. It’s about that internal tension that, within the groove, becomes storytelling. Dawson plays, but he doesn’t narrate.
He’s decent on Killers, Run to the Hills, half of Phantom and Clairvoyant. Not much, really. He holds up on three or four songs, but once things get serious, the dynamics fall flat. The fills just aren’t there, the transitions feel dry, and that trademark Maiden pulse breaks apart. Nicko’s dirty, jazzy touch is gone—that controlled chaos that used to give the songs their tension. What’s left is a band that sounds hollow: technically correct, but soulless… they sound like Maiden trying to play Maiden.
Dickinson, on the other hand, was absolutely outstanding. He carried the whole show on his back, strongly supported by Dave and Adrian, both in excellent shape.
The absence of groove became especially obvious in the longer, more complex tracks. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, for instance, needs breathing space—dynamics that expand and contract like a living wave. Instead, everything remained on a flat, predictable plane, as if the performance were being guided more by a metronome than by instinct. Seventh Son of a Seventh Son had the same flaw: no accelerations, no pauses, no inflections—those subtle choices that only a drummer aware of his dramatic function can insert. In Hallowed Be Thy Name, a song built on theatrical tension, Dawson’s linear and academic drumming stripped it of the emotional suspension that always made it magnetic.
To all this, we must add one more factor—unintentional, but real—that contributes to the loss of intensity: the new visual setup, especially the LED wall. Nothing wrong with the technical execution: it’s modern, impressive, and aligned with the expectations of a crowd that now experiences concerts as multimedia events. But the amount of visual stimulation ends up turning the concert into a video sequence rather than a sonic narrative in which inner images are born from the music itself. When everything is shown to you—air battles, frozen oceans, digital landscapes—you lose the need to imagine. And in a band like Iron Maiden, where visual mythology has always been powerful but never intrusive, this oversaturation paradoxically creates emotional distance.
The difference with the past, even the recent past, lies precisely there: not in the quality of execution, but in the depth of connection. The Maiden are still great, no doubt. Bruce is on fire, the guitars are solid, Harris is the ever-present captain—though he’s missing more cues than usual. But what’s missing is the collective breath, the one born from the spontaneous twist, the unexpected variation, the instinctive choice. McBrain could slow a song down in real time only to blow it up two bars later, without it ever being written into the chart. Dawson replaces him, but doesn’t reinterpret him. The issue isn’t that he’s not Nicko. The issue is that he’s nothing else either. He doesn’t bring his own identity. He doesn’t impose a vision. He doesn’t transform the songs—he simply performs them.
And all this leads to an uncomfortable question, one the band seems eager to avoid: why choose a drummer who’s technically spotless but emotionally inert, when there was a natural replacement capable of channeling Nicko’s groove without being a clone? They said they didn’t want a copy. But what they’ve ended up with is a heart that beats, but doesn’t bleed. An artistic decision that seems more political than musical.
That said, the setlist—at least in the first half—is simply exhilarating. The band starts strong, striking deep chords with Killers, Phantom, The Rime, and Seventh Son. But then they retreat, settle into the expected classics—timeless, yes, but worn out in live settings. There’s a lack of courage in digging into their back catalogue, in surprising us, in reshuffling the deck. Just one alternative song—swapping out Wasted Years, already played last year—would have been enough.
And so we’re left with the bitter aftertaste of a Beast that still walks, but more like a relic than a living creature. Younger fans might not feel this fracture; for those of us who lived through the wildest years, the contrast is obvious. There’s no shame in admitting that something more is needed—perhaps the return of a rhythm section capable of taking the band’s heart in hand with courage and personality.
Long live the Maiden, always. They are my life, and my books. But without the right heartbeat, this much-anticipated fiftieth anniversary tour leaves behind a brilliantly colored trail of missed opportunities. And that is truly a shame. Because we, the old guard, didn’t come to watch a replay.
We came to hear the Beast roar.
