FOREST SWORDS
Support came from Forest Swords, whose set felt less like a warm-up and more like an immersive score. Vast, cinematic soundscapes rolled out slowly, full of tension and intention. It was the kind of atmosphere that makes a room fall quiet without being asked, music that felt important rather than showy.
MOGWAI
When Mogwai walked on, they looked genuinely happy to be back in Manchester, though that warmth never really made it past the stage edge.
Crowd interaction was minimal throughout, the band largely absorbed in their own world. At times it felt like they forgot we were there entirely, but judging by the reaction in the room, that was exactly what a lot of people had come for.
Opening with Gets You Back and Hi Chaos, Mogwai settled quickly into their slow-burn rhythm. Kids Will Be Skeletons and Take Me Somewhere Nice softened the mood, pulling the room into a collective hush before letting the tension build again.
Ritchie Sacramento and How to Be a Werewolf added a sense of forward motion, while Hunted by a Freak landed with a darker, heavier punch.
As the set stretched out, so did the band’s instincts. Mogwai Fear Satan and Auto Rock sprawled and rumbled, unapologetically indulgent, unconcerned with trimming the edges.
This was where the self-indulgence really showed, but it wasn’t pushing people away. If anything, it resonated deeper. The crowd leaned into it, eyes closed, heads tipped back, finding real joy in the sheer scale and repetition of the sound.
That indulgence became a shared space. The band disappeared into the noise and the audience followed willingly, happy to be left alone with it. Fanzine Made of Flesh and We’re No Here kept that immersion intact before Lion Rumpus closed the main set in a thick wash of distortion.
There were moments where the volume tipped too far, overpowering the atmosphere the music was trying to create, but they passed quickly. The overriding feeling in the room was devotion. This was a crowd full of people getting exactly what they wanted.
The encore, My Father, My King, was vast, punishing and emotionally draining, the final act of a band with no interest in compromise.
Mogwai don’t charm, explain or reach out. They retreat inward and turn the volume up. For their fans, that self-absorption isn’t a flaw, it’s the point. And on this night in Manchester, it gave them enormous, visible joy.
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