It seems almost cliched to say it, but Manchester just gets the Manics. The band's iconic mythology, the tumultuous, inspirational story of a gang of terminal young things driven to kick against popular culture by the perpetual boredom of their small town roots, and catapulted to stardom following years of industry indifference, seems to resonate with the working class determinism that coarses through the veins of this most passionate of cities. The people here feel a kinship with Bradders, Wire and the Moore, and it's a love affair that's reciprocated twentyfold: it's why the boys from Blackwood keep coming back, time and again. It's why, thirteen glorious years ago, they chose to host the largest gig of their career at the Nynex. And it's why James begins tonight's performance with an audible, reflective sigh, before telling the 2,000 strong, packed-to-the-rafters Apollo that "it's great to be back in your beautiful metropolis." And then launching head-first into 'You Love Us' and inciting about fifty different kinds of mayhem.
Yes, these Mancunians get a tad excitable. They punch the air during a rabble-rousingly militaristic 'Faster', bellow every last incomprehensible word of the majestic 'Motorcycle Emptiness' and slam recklessly into one another for all three and a half minutes of the wall of energetic punk fury that is 'Motown Junk', clearly relishing every euphoric, absurd moment. It helps that this is a set designed to please, with twenty two classics (and 'Ocean Spray') drawn from the annals of the band's rich back catalogue. Anthem after anthem launches itself crowdwards: 'Your Love Alone is Not Enough' quickly morphs into a delightfully funky 'Roses in the Hospital'; a monumentally beautiful 'This Is Yesterday' soon transforms into the rock behemoth of 'Sleepflower', with barely a moment to catch your breath before the next riotous call to arms.
There are new tracks - five, to be precise - from the recently released 'Postcards From A Young Man', but even these seem to grow an anthemic quality of their own when given the freedom of a live setting, with the eponymous track in particular sounding gargantuan in this former theatre. And then there's the biggest and best surprise - a once-in-a-blue-moon airing of 'Yes', quite probably the greatest slice of prosaic vitriol ever to spill from the pen of the mighty Richard James Edwards, which stands out like the sorest of thumbs against the backdrop of elation that characterises the remainder of the set. Its dissonance is what makes it so bloody fantastic, however, and this is highlighted by the wave of hysteria that accompanies the opening bars.
And while the general atmosphere may be far less in keeping with the judgmental overtones of the album from which this beauty comes, the Preachers lose none of their power as a result. You may no longer find the swimming pool blue eyes and towering 9ft 5 frame of The Wire bent double over the Apollo monitors, screaming expletives into his microphone (as was the scene at this very venue way back in 2001), but he's still the single coolest bastard in rock and roll, resplendent this evening in matching leopard print jacket and miniskirt and looking effortlessly fantastic. He pouts, preens, shimmies and scissor kicks his way around the stage, seemingly unable to keep still, swept up in the euphoria of it all.
After twenty two years, the Manics are still the most monumental band on the planet. With a work ethic the size of Snowdonia and a back catalogue as grandiose, it's hard to go wrong, really. Add to that a dash and a half of glam, an unashamed refusal to bow to the demands of age and an audience after their own glitter-and-spraypaint hearts and you've got one of the finest rock shows this side of the Pennines. Same time and place next year lads, yeah?
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