Some gigs entertain. Others restore your faith.
Richard Ashcroft’s homecoming at Manchester’s Co-op Live was the latter, a night that reminded everyone why live music still matters.
Under the soft glow of that vast arena, the Wigan born frontman walked out like a man entirely at ease with his legacy: no gimmicks, no theatrics, just presence. Before the first chord had even rung out, the crowd was on its feet, ready for something sacred. And when Hold On flowed into Space and Time, it hit like a surge of collective memory. Twenty thousand voices sang as one, grateful, defiant, alive.
Ashcroft’s set was built with intent. Music Is Power, Break the Night with Colour, They Don’t Own Me, songs that once soundtracked a generation now landed like declarations. In 2025, their meaning feels sharper than ever. This wasn’t nostalgia, it was a reaffirmation of belief: in self, in song, in the idea that music can still lift us above the noise.
The pacing was flawless. Velvet Morning and Sonnet brought moments of quiet beauty, the string section wrapping his voice in cinematic warmth. It was the kind of arrangement that makes you close your eyes for a verse or two, just to let it sink in. Every melody felt cared for, performed with love rather than simply replayed.
Between songs, Ashcroft was his unfiltered self. Equal parts philosopher and lad next door, he joked, reflected, and celebrated the “real people on stage” beside him. There were flashes of the old fire, mentions of doubters, teachers, and industry cynics, but it all came from a place of triumph, not bitterness. It was a reminder that resilience can age as gracefully as melody.
Then came the encore. The Drugs Don’t Work, stripped to its core, stilled the entire arena. You could feel the weight of the lyrics like they had just been written that morning. It was intimate, haunting, and utterly human, a song reborn through the voice of a man who has lived every word of it.
And then, of course, Bittersweet Symphony.
Those opening strings drew the loudest cheer of the night, echoing through every tier of Co-op Live. When the chorus hit, it wasn’t just a performance, it was a shared catharsis. Thousands of people singing in perfect unison, trying to hold onto a moment they knew would end too soon.
Ashcroft closed the night the only way he knows how, with a grin, a raised beer, and a mic stand buried into the stage. Defiant, poetic, and entirely in control.
Three decades on, Richard Ashcroft remains one of the greats, not because he is chasing the past, but because he still believes in what got him here: conviction, melody, truth.
On this cold November night in Manchester, belief never sounded so alive.
