DELILAH BON + CRAE WOLF – O2 ISLINGTON ACADEMY 23RD NOVEMBER 2025
If Disney princesses decided to unionise, burn down the castle, and start a riot grrrl revival, Delilah Bon would be their undisputed leader. On Sunday night at the O2 Academy Islington, the Princeless Princess tour arrived not with a polite curtsy, but with a primal roar that shook the venue to its foundations.
The night began with the gritty, high-octane energy of support act Crae Wolf, a force of nature who defines her sound as “Baddie Metal Core.” She didn’t just warm up the stage; she staked her claim. During her song Wolf, she transformed the audience into her own personal pack, inciting them to howl and bark in a feral call-and-response that threatened to tear the roof off. It was a masterclass in crowd control, a fierce, genre-blending set that perfectly primed the room for the chaos to follow – though ultimately, the evening belonged to Bon.
To the uninitiated, Delilah Bon presents a jarring, delicious paradox. Visually, she is pure confectionery: sugary sweet, a vision of sparkles, tulle, and pink aesthetics. But sonically and spiritually, she is Tinker Bell with a submachine gun. She is Cinderella, clutching a hand grenade, waiting for the clock to strike midnight so she can blow the patriarchy to smithereens.
Looking out from the stage, the connection between Bon and her “Bon Bons” – the affectionate moniker for her devoted fanbase – was visceral. The crowd was a sea of pink princess tiaras, singing and dancing as one, united in a reclaiming of femininity as something dangerous rather than restrained. Yet for all the volume and rage, Bon creates a profound sense of safety.
Early in the set, she signalled the lighting technician to bring the house lights up, pausing the musical onslaught to raise a glass and say, “Cheers to all the socially anxious people here tonight.” It was a moment of tender recognition, solidifying the bond between the artist and her army. She looked out at the faces illuminated by the house lights and told them they were her sisters, her friends, instantly stripping away the hierarchy of the stage and turning the concert into a massive, unified family gathering.
But make no mistake: this safe space was weaponised. Bon is a maverick, a fearless activist for women and the LGBTQI+ community who uses her platform to scream the things polite society only whispers. She launched into Villain, a brat-punk anthem about school-day boredom and “pissing the teachers off,” channelling a youthful rebellion that resonated with every former outcast in the room.
The setlist was a masterclass in balancing bubblegum aesthetics with incendiary lyrics about misogyny, rape culture, and systemic violence. Bon does not shy away from the darkness; she drags it into the neon light. In a moment of dark, biting humour, she addressed the reality of being an outspoken woman on the internet. She spoke candidly about receiving death threats from men, noting with a terrifying pragmatism that while the threats are horrifying, they “help the algorithm.” It was a stark reminder of the digital battlefield she inhabits, turning their hate into her fuel.
The emotional peak of the night came during the introduction to Chop Dicks. The music faded, and Bon spoke to the hushed room about a universal female experience: the fear of simply existing alone. She described the terror of walking her dog in the woods, the constant surveillance women must perform to ensure their own survival. Then the beat dropped, and that vulnerability transmuted instantly into rage. The song is a blunt instrument, a refusal to be the victim, delivered with a ferocity that felt like a physical blow.
This energy crested with Dead Men Don’t Rape. In the current climate, often dominated by the toxic ideologies of the Andrew Tate generation, this song felt less like a track and more like a collective exorcism. The audience didn’t just sing along; they punched the air, screaming the chorus back at the top of their lungs in a cathartic shared moment of anarchic defiance. When Bon snarled the lyrics calling out those who defend rapists in I Wanna Make Him Suffer, it wasn’t just a performance; it was a manifesto. She is the most dangerous and thrilling force in the fairytale, an anti-establishment feminist queer hero refusing to offer forgiveness to the unforgivable.
The political venom didn’t stop at cultural figures; it went straight for the jugular of global power. In a moment that sucked the air out of the room, only to ignite it moments later, Bon turned her sights across the Atlantic to Donald Trump. She didn’t mince words or hide behind metaphors, stripping away the veneer of presidential authority to expose the predator underneath. With a sneer that could cut glass, she described him not as a leader, but simply as a man who has abused countless women and girls, a powerful figurehead for the very misogyny she seeks to dismantle. It was a stark, chilling reminder that the war on women is global, and that silence in the face of such power is complicity. The crowd’s reaction was immediate and visceral, a collective howl of shared rage against a system that rewards abusers with the highest office in the land.
No one was safe from her critique. Before launching into I Wish A Bitch Would, she took aim at the police, calling out their dismissive treatment of women and trans women who report sexual abuse and violence. She demands to be heard, a voice for the silenced, amplifying the rage of the marginalised until it becomes deafening.
As the final chords rang out, the divide between stage and pit didn’t just blur – it shattered. Delilah Bon descended into the heaving mass of her army, a general leading the charge from the frontlines, surrounded by a legion of tiara-clad warriors screaming every word back at her. This wasn’t just a gig; it was a coronation of chaos. Delilah Bon is more than a character; she is a reckoning wrapped in tulle, the razor blade in the candy apple, the primal scream in the throat of every person ever told to be quiet. On Sunday night, the princess didn’t just find her voice – she weaponised it, and the echoes of her roar will be ringing in Islington long after the pink glitter settles.
WORDS & PHOTOS: LOUISE PHILIPS
