LIVE REVIEW: The 1975 – AO Arena, Manchester – 18/02/2024

Do you know that people really like The 1975? You should; it’s hardly any kind of secret. In fact, for all the current-generation acts shored up by an unflinching cult of personality, theirs might just top all others. If the stories are to be believed, punters were camped out in the queue for the best part of a week for this tour’s first Manchester show, with some particularly cavalier chancers organizing an ad-hoc ‘space reservation’ system that no normal person would’ve bought into in a million years.

It’s impossible to tell whether that level of lunacy has factored into tonight’s following show, but the dedication doesn’t go unnoticed. A bit of merch seems to be the baseline criteria; elsewhere, there’s a not-insignificant number of aesthetic-mirroring leather jackets and school ties, and even one or two instances of clown facepaint á la the I’m In Love With You video. Especially for some of the kids here for whom this will be the closest to an ‘event gig’ they’ll go to in a while, it does seem worth it. After all, it’s The 1975’s second hometown show on a tour that’s entirely sold out, the latest step in their pipeline from painfully trendy indie boys to enormo-pop mavericks with entire scenes bending around their profile. There are certainly less momentous things to fill every Snapchat story in the city with.

But first, The Japanese House, filling the semi-usual role of a fellow Dirty Hitter given only a fraction of the capital of the label’s vaunted cash-cow. The visual representation of that comes in how Amber Bain and her band are effectively forced onto the edge of the stage, gated off from any bigger play-room by the curtain hiding the headliners’ bells and whistles. And, yeah, that’s a shame, but there’s a sense that Bain knows she’s distinctly second fiddle tonight, and seeks to impress within that range instead. She really does, too, sporting an arsenal of spry indie- and electro-pop cuts, held firm in a wiry, chugging form concocted by the abundance of keys and a standout rhythm section. In the realms of late-2010s pop chic, this has it in spades, from the trills of saxophone to the more swaying, pillowy numbers like Something Has To Change. Predicated on vibe, it’s smooth and easygoing, but with a real richness that keeps it feeling alive, reciprocated by a surprisingly vocal and enthused crowd. You can easily imagine some vested effort from them to break The Japanese House onto a similar level; it’s not out of the question to picture them up here at the top of a bill.

Well, maybe not quite to these exact heights because, y’know…people really like The 1975. The shrieks and screams of overstimulated teenagers when one of them so much as arrives onstage would clue in even the most uninitiated. And there is a sense that The 1975 are so shamelessly playing into their own myth. The image of the disaffected, too-cool stalwarts of modern pop is what their entire thesis is built around, specifically for Matty Healy. He’s somehow able to make effortlessness look effortless—aloof, maybe a bit drunk, and fully aware he’ll be the most magnetic person in this room for the next couple of hours. As he takes the occasional swig from his hip flash and drag on his cigarette, he’s the epitome of a rockstar for so many in attendance tonight.

It’s also where a bit of the much-lambasted pretentiousness of The 1975 is rooted to, not for the worst of reasons. You know it when it comes, the lull midway through for the ‘Matty’s Nightmare’ segment of the show, as the clips of news broadcasts of various controversies that have been playing on TVs around the stage swallow Healy whole, literally dragging him through one of the screens. He ends up on the mid-crowd B-stage, prowling around a green baize with a naked replica of himself curled up in the centre. The echoes of certain Kanye West-isms aren’t lost (depending on where you stand with both artists, they might be a bit too on-the-nose), and while it’s certainly an attention-grabber, it’s also a bizarre non sequitur that, for what’s ostensibly a big, flashy pop show on both sides, grinds the populism down to light powder.

What’s perhaps more surprising is that there isn’t more like this going on. Don’t forget how much this band love to flex the ol’ ‘spiralling-off-into-nothingness’ gambit on their albums, written off as experimental musical literacy. Then again, if that’s what they hinged themselves on, they wouldn’t be this big, would they? Even they themselves have to be aware of that, given how severe the uptick is when they stick to the hits. For a tour boasting the title Still…At The Very Best, there’s an approach to curation that has to be taken, and the self-evidence of The 1975’s material that falls under that banner is stark. Early on especially, with a close-quarters selection of Happiness, Oh Caroline and I’m In Love With You, the glistening, tactile sophistipop that leaped out on Being Funny In A Foreign Language sounds immaculate. Later on, big blocks of colour flash for the house tick of TOOTIMETOOTIMETOOTIME and columns of pink light flash up for The Sound, as Healy shakes and shuffles in the guise of a full-on, period-accurate new wave dork (meant in a completely endearing way, of course). At their best, there’s a quality that paints on a rictus grin as only the most enduring of pop can.

Further to that, there are still multitudes within even their most glaring, straightforward cuts that make the spectacle of The 1975 being here feel totally earned. The stage setup, for one, is pretty cool, as a sort of half-house with a spiral staircase and street lights flickering ‘outside’, where the nooks and crannies and various details are open for exploration as Healy ambles around. It’s almost like a stageplay, or maybe even a sitcom in how the ‘opening credits’ display to introduce each band member.

It’s a frame around which some fittingly homespun and human moments for can found, necessary for a band like this who’ve always been guzzling down their own artifice. They don’t have to be huge to be poignant, either; Healy and additional vocalist / guitarist Polly Money share a vodka on A Change Of Heart, in a really sweet moment to pick up on. Of course, the big swings still prevail in the end, ramrodding their way through in a way that’s all too in-keeping. Milk gets a rare airing as a deep cut requested by a fan at a meet-and-greet, (seemingly) on the fly and serving as a decent opportunity to stretch their indie-rock legs again. More notably, though, is the contribution of Matty’s dad Tim Healy (yep, from Benidorm) on All I Need To Hear for an almost ground-up recontextualisation. He’s got a shockingly good voice, the craggy baritone of a veteran bluesman that turns the somewhat stiff soul throwback of its recorded counterpart into something, honestly, stunning.

True to form, every little moment or instance of eye-catching shine is sewn together into the newest iteration of The 1975’s capital-S show. In the way that so many arena acts can feel stilted or hemmed in by expectations of grandeur, the freewheeling, changing-gears-at-a-moment’s-notice approach has so much life to it; even when led into strange, artsy interludes that are more confounding than good, it’s not something you’re liable to forget. And for all the talk about The 1975’s veneer and visage and how they’ll prop up assumptions of their own self-importance…well, it’s not not a factor, but they’re also not too good to peak from behind it either. “Straight guys,” Healy says during The Sound, “you’re probably worried if you jump, you’re gonna look gay—you’re at a 1975 show; you already look gay.” That kind of sums it up perfectly, where the outspokenness butts heads with the self-awareness, as a flair for the dramatic looks on and proceeds to slam into both. It’s the brand that this band have built for themselves as ridden for lightyears at this point, and they’re unabashedly excellent at it. It’s more than paid off; after all, people really like The 1975.

Words by Luke Nuttall