Review: Felix Hagan Takes 54 Below with Raw Talent & Boundless Joy

In a city teeming with Broadway stars and splashy productions, there’s something remarkably refreshing about watching Felix Hagan perform alone at a piano at 54 Below. The co-writer and composer of Operation Mincemeat, currently bringing British wartime absurdity to the John Golden Theatre, delivered an evening on Friday March 14 that felt less like a structured showcase and more like being invited into his musical mind for a few precious hours.

At 54 Below, Hagan occupied a unique position—simultaneously celebrating his recent wins, including a Broadway breakthrough, while still hustling to fund his upcoming solo album Happy Songs through Kickstarter. He’s not a jaded veteran nor a wide-eyed newcomer, but an artist who has seen his work both celebrated and overlooked.

Hagan’s music bears the unmistakable imprint of idealism reminiscent of David Bowie and Jonathan Larson, but with a distinctive twist. This isn’t some liquid courage born of naïveté, but rather a hard-won conviction that carries both artist and audience through trials with perseverance and connection. When he sings in “Hello Cloud” about being “stronger than a mountain” and “deeper than the sea,” it’s not empty bravado but a declaration of resilience.

What makes his optimism so compelling is that it comes from someone who has faced rejection and setbacks. His self-deprecating quips about missing flights and career frustrations (“I did not get into this job to do any work”) reveal an artist who knows firsthand the difficulty of the artistic path, but keeps on pursuing it anyway. In “Happy Songs,” the title track from his upcoming album, he acknowledges how his artistic voice has changed: “When I started writing every song was like a sugared rainbow. Now the notes are muted and they’re bleeding out in shades of gray.” Yet this recognition isn’t defeatist—it’s a stepping stone toward renewal: “One day I’ll get back to the happy songs, the ones where the man ain’t broken.”

Notably absent from Hagan’s songwriting is the typical us-versus-them narrative that pervades rock music. Instead, his songs present a “here versus there” dichotomy—”here” being the mundane work that pays the bills, and “there” being the dynamic nightlife, love, and music that transports us to another world.

In “Kiss the Misfits,” he encourages listeners to shed their professional personas: “The suit doesn’t suit you, boy. So shed it ‘cos it’s over now.” The song celebrates finding freedom and authenticity in spaces where conventional success doesn’t matter, with a working-class sensibility threaded throughout.

What drives Hagan isn’t greed for wealth or status, but rather the urge to touch more people with music. In “Gene Kelly,” his ambition isn’t framed in terms of riches or awards, but rather creation: “Tell the world I’m ready to write their favorite song.” The reward he seeks is resonance—to create something that matters to someone else—revealing an artist whose ego serves his art rather than the other way around.

The love Hagan speaks of in his songs is giving, forgiving, and redeeming. In “You Love Me,” he marvels at being loved “when [he doesn’t] know why,” suggesting a relationship that transcends the transactional. This love isn’t bound by the caution and distance of contemporary therapy-speak; it’s all-encompassing and transformative.

“I’m Hearing Music Everywhere” captures this most vividly, describing how love changes perception: “This feeling that she’s giving me is bigger than infinity.” The metaphor of “melody abounding all around” perfectly encapsulates how love can reawaken creativity and joy. There’s something almost mythological in how Hagan portrays love—it lifts the common person to sit among royalty and gods, as he declares that his lover makes him “hear [her] voice across vast distances” and “lift[s him] from the earth to the sky.”

This elevated view of love is striking in our zeitgeist that often prioritizes either the more guarded treatment, or graphic details of intimacy. Hagan’s approach to romance is marked by exuberance, simply refusing to temper his emotional expression with irony.

What prevents these themes from feeling clichéd is Hagan’s exceptional musical craft. His piano playing shifts seamlessly from delicate arpeggios in ballads like “Dear Bill” to percussive, almost orchestral arrangements in uptempo numbers like “Let Me Die in Velvet.” His vocal technique is equally versatile, with a falsetto that can communicate both vulnerability and exultation, often within the same phrase.

The patter-song complexity of “Dead in the Water” demonstrates technical virtuosity, while the sea-shanty cadence of “Sail On, Boys” shows his ability to write melodies that feel instantly familiar yet resounding. This musical sophistication gives weight to his optimistic messages—they’re not simplistic platitudes but carefully constructed arguments for hope.

Perhaps most striking about Hagan’s performance is how easily he transforms the audience from observers to participants. In “Breathe In, Breathe Out,” he creates what feels like a mantra for himself as much as his audience: “They’re just emotions—drops in the ocean—so let your feelings go.” When he divides the room into harmonizing sections, the effect is powerful—strangers basking in communal healing, creating something beautiful.

As Hagan leads the room in one final chorus of “Sail On, Boys,” we sense that we’ve witnessed something authentic—an artist using his considerable gifts not to impress but to connect, to restore our unironic belief in the transformative power of art, love, and community. One can’t help but believe that whatever storms lie ahead, this journey is worth taking—together.

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Tickets to Operation Mincemeat and more information are available online here.

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