For the opening night of her Meltdown-curated festival, Little Simz handed the keys to a fellow scene-shaper: Mike Skinner, the Midlands-born writer-producer-MC behind The Streets, who rewired the UK music with Original Pirate Material in 2002. Now, 30 years into the project — from mid-90s pirate radio roots to a Mercury-nominated legacy — and performing in the stately Royal Festival Hall no less, he’s still pulling the same trick: using everyday detail and raw emotional clarity to push things somewhere unexpected. Only now, the backdrop has changed.

From the moment Skinner walks on stage — flanked by the latest incarnation of The Streets’ live band — it’s clear that formality won’t last long. “Turn the Page” opens like a sermon: sirens, urgent strings, rolling drums. Then Skinner climbs an upturned monitor, teetering with mock-seriousness. “When I jump off this box,” he declares, “you can all stand up, and it’s gonna get a bit wild.”

His band, tight but unflashy, reworks the early material with enough give to stretch it out. Kevin Mark Trail — a long-standing presence in The Streets’ story — handles backing vocals and melodic duties with sharp timing and real lift. Rob Harvey’s guitar work leans into rawness rather than polish. Wayne Bennett and Cassell the Beatmaker build weight underneath, and Gabriel Piers-Mantell holds the whole machine together from behind the keys. The arrangements feel unshackled: “Let’s Push Things Forward” breathes differently, “Don’t Mug Yourself” hits with extra muscle, “Weak Become Heroes” comes across like a memory half-rewritten in real time.

But the power of this show isn’t just in the arrangements; it’s in the looseness. Skinner treats the Hall like a massive front room. He dismantles its boundaries. He doesn’t just break the fourth wall, he ignores it completely. He roams the aisles, swipes crisps from the front row, poses mid-verse for balcony selfies, then pauses to salute two women dancing high in the boxes: “That’s the vibe,” he grins, spotlight following his finger upwards. “Save your claps,” he shouts. “I want a standing ovation!” He dances through the crowd, disappears from the stage without warning, reappears somewhere unexpected. The performance feels unstable in the best possible way: improvised, lived-in, constantly walking the line between chaos and catharsis.

Between tracks, he reflects on his children — present in the crowd and fresh from their GCSEs — and shares a piece of advice he’d given them: the difficult things in life are the ones that bring the most satisfaction. The proud-dad glow cuts through the laddish persona, grounding the set’s swagger in something more generous, more human.

Fresh material blends smoothly. Last year’s “Mike (Desert Island Duvet)” sat beside “Weak Become Heroes” like two sides of the same diary, proof that self-doubt and late-night clarity still drive Skinner’s pen.

There are quiet moments too. “Dry Your Eyes” is delivered in a hush, Skinner almost speaking the lyrics while the audience carries the tune. “Blinded by the Lights” follows, building its woozy tempo into something closer to shared hypnosis. Then “Fit But You Know It” explodes: pogoing, shouting, total release. It’s theatre, rave and group therapy all at once.

Skinner opening Meltdown matters. Not just because The Streets distilled a distinctly British underground voice and pushed it into global circulation, but because he’s still shifting shape. The band is tighter. The show’s looser. The stories — alienation, joy, self-sabotage, survival — still bite. In an era of pre-packaged tours and nostalgia polished to a mirror shine, Skinner delivers something messier, riskier, more alive. A gig that doesn’t just perform connection, but builds it in real time.

By the final song, “Take Me As I Am”, Skinner climbs back on his monitor box, arms wide, spotlight stark. As the track ends, he hops down, thanks the crowd, and stands shoulder to shoulder with his band. The Royal Festival Hall rises as one. Just a quiet nod and a grin that says the mission landed. Standing ovation achieved on his own terms, box and all: exactly as scripted, in the most unscripted way.