Ed Sheeran in Shillong: One man, his guitar and a loopstation

It’s February 2025, and somewhere in a world of AirPods and Spotify algorithms, Ed Sheeran is probably fumbling with a Walkman, trying to find that sweet spot where the tape wouldn’t warble. Not because he is making some profound statement about analogue vs. digital, but because back in 2015, he looked at his phone—drowning in a tsunami of notifications and 10,000 contacts—and basically said, “Nah, I’m good.” It is the kind of delightfully weird detail that made perfect sense as he performed in Shillong a week ago, turning JN Stadium into what felt like the world’s largest living room concert.

Before diving into that night's magic, I should probably address the obvious—why did it take me ten days to write this? Well, some experiences refuse to be neatly packaged into words right away. Some moments demand to be felt long after they happen, simmering in the mind until they take shape. This concert was just that; an atmosphere, a feeling, a memory that kept unfolding even after the final note had faded. And honestly? I wanted to do it justice.

Maybe that’s why the night itself felt almost dreamlike, each act seamlessly blending into the next. Kayan opened the show, her ethereal voice painting the twilight with shades of electronic soul. She set the mood effortlessly, proving that the magic starts before the main act. The crowd moved with her beats, the cold night buzzing with energy.

The stadium went dark. Thirty thousand breaths held still in the cold February air of Shillong. There was no fancy announcement. No dramatic build-up. No pyrotechnics warming up the stage. Just a man in a black t-shirt with ‘SHILLONG’ printed across it, a white full-sleeve underneath, wearing his ginger hair like a crown and carrying a beige guitar with a brown strap. Ed Sheeran—the man who once auditioned for a show called Britannia High at 16 and didn’t make it through because he “didn’t have all the skills they were looking for”—ran onto the stage like he was late for a jam session with friends.

Hours earlier, the sun had watched thousands gather outside JN Stadium. By noon, six hours before the gates opened, they were already there. Some had breakfast in line, sharing sandwiches with strangers who would soon become friends, connected by their shared enthusiasm and thrill of the moment.

They came from all walks of life, divided only by their ticket categories—General Access, General Access Plus, and Lounge—but united by the knowledge that they were about to witness something bigger than themselves. The Book My Show team moved with professional precision at the entry points, though the local management occasionally stumbled through the chaos.

And then it began. Castle on the Hill broke through the night, and suddenly, everyone was 15 again, racing down their own metaphorical country lanes. For those who didn’t know, this song was Ed’s love letter to Suffolk, where he grew up. The castle he sang about? That was Framlingham Castle, still standing tall in his hometown. But that night, the song about his hometown somehow transformed into everyone’s story.

Young faces in the crowd closed their eyes, perhaps seeing their own castles, their own hills, their own versions of home. That was the thing about Ed—he didn’t just sing songs, he handed you a mirror to your own memories. First the guitar, then the beat, then his voice, building a wall of sound that felt impossibly full for one person to create.

“If you have never seen my show before,” he said, “everything you hear tonight is completely live. There is no backing track.” A pause, a gentle pat on the loop station beside him. “This has got a loop pedal, it’s all recorded on the spot, controlled on the spot, and then deleted.” Simple words that held a promise—that night wasn’t about perfection, it was about something real.

Between songs, he barely paused to drink water, like someone trying not to break the spell of a conversation with old friends. And in many ways, that was exactly what this was. He took a swig of water, then dropped a bomb: “We have travelled to five cities in India so far, and Shillong, you are the loudest.” The crowd erupted, of course, but there was something genuine in his delivery that made it feel less like practised stage banter and more like an honest surprise.

The screen behind him danced with illustrations, colours, and graphics, but it never overshadowed the simple magic happening centre stage—one man, one guitar, one loop station. This was the same Ed who, back in 2004, recorded his first record, Spinning Man, as a teenager. The same Ed who busked on London streets and played to empty pubs where people were more interested in their conversations than his music.

The stage had two small elevated platforms where he occasionally climbed—not to look down on the crowd, but to see them better, to connect with the faces further back.

The night flowed like a river finding its path. With a few taps on his loop pedal, the next song built itself from the ground up—layer after layer of sound. The stage transformed with blue illumination and visual elements. Ed played his guitar, layered sounds through his loop machine, and asked, “Do you know the words to this song?” When the audience responded affirmatively, he smiled and said, “Sing with me then,” beginning Shivers. By the time he hit the chorus, thousands were his backup singers, and honestly? We weren’t half bad.

That shared energy lingered in the air, making the transition to the next song feel almost effortless. Then came I’m a Mess, which was either about confused feelings or an accurate description of what happens to your emotions when you watch Ed Sheeran turn himself into a one-man orchestra using just his guitar and that loop pedal. He bounced between two small platforms like a ginger pinball, making sure even people in the nosebleed section felt like they were sitting in his kitchen watching him practice.

“When I was 18,” he shared before playing The A-Team, “I was playing open mic gigs in London when one or two people would turn up.” His voice carried no bitterness, just wonder. “Maybe you’d have four people watching you, maybe 10 people watching you, but the people who were watching you did not want to hear music. They wanted to catch up with their friends while you were playing guitar, and it was annoying.”

He closed his eyes then, perhaps seeing that empty pub from years ago. When he opened them, 30,000 voices were singing his words back to him. The same song that nobody wanted to hear in those London pubs had become an anthem carried in thousands of hearts.

At one point, Ed grabbed a gimbal with a camera, climbed onto one of the small platforms, and turned his back to the audience. The crowd knew what to do—thousands of phone lights came out, creating a sea of stars as they sang. Ed recorded it all, a smile playing on his face that seemed to say, “Is this really happening?”

Give Me Love turned into something like a musical flash mob, except everyone was in on it. Ed split the crowd into two parts, turning us into a massive human loop machine. The high harmony section went one way, the low harmony another, and somewhere in the middle, magic happened. The song that supposedly took him 20 minutes to write took about 20 seconds to turn the whole stadium into a choir.

As the final harmonies faded into the night, the mood shifted seamlessly. The soft, emotional swell of Give Me Love made way for something sharper, more rhythmic. Don’t was next, and with it, Ed proved he wasn’t just the guy who wrote songs about feelings—he was a full-fledged music nerd who probably dreamed in time signatures.

Watching him build that beat live, layer by layer, was like witnessing someone solve a Rubik’s cube while juggling on a unicycle. But it wasn’t about showing off. Don’t was a reminder of Ed’s often-overlooked musical genius. While most recognised him as the ginger-haired guy with a guitar, this performance cemented his place among technical virtuosos like Charlie Puth. Constructing intricate beats and layers in real-time, without missing a note, he delivered a true masterclass in musicianship.

The familiar chords of Lego House washed over the crowd like a wave of nostalgia. And yes, everyone immediately thought of Ron Weasley—Rupert Grint’s starring role in the music video remained forever linked to the song (for those living under a Hogwarts-sized rock). But beyond the Harry Potter connection, this was a moment where Ed’s gift for turning simple metaphors into profound truths truly shone. A song about love built from plastic bricks somehow felt even more poignant in Shillong’s chilly air, where the audience huddled together like, well, Lego pieces.

Just when everyone was getting cosy in their feelings, Ed flipped the switch and went full rap god with Take It Back—but he wasn’t about to stop there. He mashed it up with Superstition and Ain’t No Sunshine, turning the whole thing into a musical relay race where only he knew the finish line. Half the crowd ran out of breath trying to keep up, while the other half just stood there, jaws unhinged, questioning if he was actually human or just some kind of rhythm-cyborg.

The eerie intro of I See Fire crept in, and just like that, the stadium fell into a hushed, almost reverent silence. Written for The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, the song transported everyone straight to Middle-earth—only with better WiFi. As Ed sang about watching over Durin’s sons, thousands of phone lights flickered to life, turning the crowd into a galaxy of stars.

The night flowed through emotions like a well-crafted novel, and when Eyes Closed arrived, the pages turned heavy. “Sometimes the people we lose, it happens pretty gradually,” Ed said, his voice softer now. “We make peace with it over time before they pass away. While it’s painful to know that it’s going to happen someday, sometimes it happens very suddenly.” Written for a friend he lost nine years ago, the song carried a weight that settled over the stadium. For a few minutes, thousands of people stood together, each lost in their own stories of goodbye.

Ed knew exactly how to read a room. After the emotional weight of Eyes Closed, he wasted no time lifting the mood with Thinking Out Loud. “If you don’t know the lyrics to my next song, you’re probably at the wrong concert,” he joked, earning instant cheers. This was the song that had snagged him his first Grammy wins—Song of the Year and Best Pop Solo Performance in 2016—and had the whole stadium swaying. Fun fact: it was one of the rare times Ed danced in a music video, playing a proper gentleman at a ball.

Happier came next, its bittersweet lyrics about watching an ex find joy with someone else settling over the stadium like a sigh. But Ed, ever the musical mastermind, wasn’t about to let us just sit in our feelings—he gave us a job. “Hey ya hey ya hey ya,” he sang, feeding it into the loop machine. “Now you have to be louder than that,” he smiled. “When I point at you, you sing this part.” And just like that, we became his backing vocals, turning personal heartbreak into a strangely unifying, almost cathartic choir. Only Ed could make a breakup song feel like a group hug.

Before launching into Love Yourself, Ed casually mentioned, “I gave this song to a friend of mine in 2015, and it became a big hit.” That “friend” was Justin Bieber, of course, and the crowd immediately responded with a loud woooooo before singing along to every line. Ed, known for writing songs for major artistes like BTS, One Direction, and Justin Bieber, had a knack for crafting hits that took on a life of their own. And as the stadium echoed with thousands of voices, it was clear—whether he was singing it himself or passing it on, Ed’s songwriting magic was undeniable.

Then came Sing, a track that fused pop and R&B, inspired by Justin Timberlake’s signature style. Back in 2014, I had painstakingly learned every lyric—and when the moment arrived, I sang every part out loud, completely owning it. But Ed had other plans.

“We’re gonna whisper sing,” he instructed. The crowd dropped to a hush. Then, “Louder.” Then, “A little bit louder.” With each cue, the energy built until the entire stadium was roaring, perfectly in sync with him.

Sing was a turning point in his career. After being nominated for Best New Artist at the 2014 Grammys, he had teased the follow-up to +, and by June, Sing had earned him his first UK Number 1, setting the stage for x. And judging by the crowd’s reaction, its magic hadn’t faded one bit.

Adding to the experience was the concert’s backdrop—easily one of the most stunning visual displays I’d ever seen. With every song, a new story unfolded behind him. Sometimes, Ed himself filled the screen. Other times, it was just illustrations, painting emotions in real-time.

Following that was One. Released in 2014 as the first single from x, it carried a quiet kind of sadness, the kind that lingers long after the last note fades.

What made the concert so special wasn’t just the setlist—it was how Ed orchestrated the entire experience. One moment, we were on our toes, dancing like maniacs. The next, we were standing still, completely lost in his voice and lyrics. And then there were the times we lost our voices literally, following his musical lessons—whisper singing, belting out harmonies, and echoing every chorus like a stadium-sized choir. He didn’t just make sure we moved—he made sure we felt, breathed, and lived the music right alongside him.

Photograph followed One, and with it came a wave of nostalgia so strong you could almost see memories flickering through the crowd. This was the song that had been played at countless school and college farewell functions, the soundtrack to so many goodbyes. Hearing it live wasn’t just about the moment—it was about reliving all the ones that came before.

For Tenerife Sea, Ed asked for complete silence—a bold request, considering how loud the Shillong crowd had been all night, singing along to every song. “This one sounds best in complete silence,” he explained. And so, we listened. Well, almost complete silence. There were a few whispers, and the occasional rustle, but for the most part, the stadium held its breath, letting the song wash over us like a whispered secret.

As soon as Perfect began—the “designated wedding song”—any illusion of silence disappeared. Even Ed knew this one would be louder than him. The stadium transformed into a sea of swaying couples, lost in each other’s eyes, singing like it was their love story. Some even took the opportunity to propose, creating viral moments that would live on far beyond the concert. For a song about timeless love, it couldn’t have been a more fitting scene.

With Bloodstream, Ed went full rockstar mode again, tearing through the song with raw intensity before seamlessly transitioning into the ever-haunting Afterglow. This track, released as a surprise after his long break from music, wasn’t meant to be a lead single—just a song he wanted to share, a quiet love letter to his partner, capturing the warmth of a cherished moment. With its intimate lyrics and cosy, wintery feel, it felt like a deep breath before the concert’s final stretch.

And then, suddenly, he was gone. Some of us looked around, puzzled. Could it be over? Surely not—he hadn’t sung Shape of You yet.

Just as we began to wonder, Ed reappeared—now in a pink jersey. Turns out, he had spent the day before the concert training with Northeast United under John Abraham, playing football with young local talents. Now, back on stage, he launched into You Need Me, I Don’t Need You, and the audience jumped in with full force, fuelled by the realisation that the night wasn’t over yet.

You Need Me, I Don’t Need You has always carried a bit of a rebellious streak. Written when he was just a teenager, the song was his declaration of independence, a statement that he didn’t need anyone else’s words or formulas to make it big. And well, he was right.

And then the moment arrived. At every concert, there are the diehard fans, and then there are those who just come for “the vibe.” And for them, this was it—Shape of You.

As soon as Ed started the loop—“oh I oh I oh I”—the stadium erupted. “You sing this part,” he told us, and by then, we were all practically intermediate-level backing vocalists.

Shape of You wasn’t just a hit; it was a global phenomenon. Released as part of his ÷ album in 2017, it had become the fastest-selling album by a male solo artist in UK history and the best-selling single of the year in both the UK and US. By 2019, it had smashed records, becoming only the second video on YouTube to reach four billion views. It also won him two Grammy Awards—Best Pop Solo Performance and Best Pop Vocal Album—plus multiple Ivor Novello Awards, including Songwriter of the Year.

When he performed it live, the energy in the stadium hit a new peak. Even those who had come just for this song (and let’s be real, there were a few) found themselves completely swept up in the moment.

Bad Habits closed the show, with Ed grabbing a camera on a gimbal and coming down to capture the sea of faces before him—thousands of voices, now gloriously hoarse, belting out one last chorus.

Released in June 2021 as the first single from his fifth studio album, Bad Habits had quickly become another Sheeran juggernaut. By April 2022, it had hit a staggering one billion streams on Spotify, making it his tenth song to reach that milestone. Later that year, Phonographic Performance Limited (PPL) declared Ed the most-played artist of 2021, with Bad Habits reigning as the most-played song.

By the time it ended, everyone’s voices were as rough as sandpaper—just as Ed had predicted: “My goal tonight is when people ask you tomorrow, ‘how was the show,’ you go ‘yeah yeah it was great’“ (cue broken, rasping voice).

Phones full of shaky videos, voices reduced to whispers—something felt different. Maybe it was the way Ed had turned a massive gig into an intimate jam session. Or how he proved you don’t need elaborate effects when your stories feel like they could be anyone’s.

Or maybe it was knowing that somewhere, in a world obsessed with the next big thing, there’s something wonderfully rebellious about a superstar who stays best friends with technology from the ‘80s.

The next morning, Shillong probably woke up to thousands of husky voices trying to explain what they had just witnessed. But how do you explain magic? How do you describe one guy with a guitar turning a stadium into a living room?

Maybe you don’t. Maybe you just smile, rest your voice, and take comfort in knowing that somewhere out there, Ed Sheeran is still trying to get that cassette to play just right.