Photos taken at Utilita Arena, Birmingham on 16/01/2026
It’s a testament to Biffy Clyro as a whole that there’s still so much to look forward to when they come to town. They’ve been arena-rock institutions for well over a decade at this point, honing their craft to where any of the old, gonzo weirdness comes to the slightest trace amount. And yet, at no point has that looked like backsliding or atrophy. The reason that the optimal Biffy Clyro experience these days is on the live stage, and not on record, is because of how refined that’s become. It’s the best look at the heights their rise to alt-rock prominence has scaled, curated to fit the best, most effective, most significant mould.
It’s also worth noting, though, how this run in the band’s first without bassist James Johnston, taking a sabbatical from touring for mental health purposes. That was announced in December, and while the fraternal nature of Biffy Clyro meant the fate of this whole thing could’ve been up in the air, shows like this ultimately work out more than they don’t. Biffy Clyro aren’t a niche enterprise anymore; they’re a mainstream act, for all intents and purposes. No matter how differently they carry themselves from their compatriots who’ve similarly risen above the alt-rock waterline, the same perseverance in the face of adversity is accounted for. As the adage goes, the show must go on.
But to think that means kowtowing wholly to industry machinations does a major disservice to the kind of band that Biffy Clyro are. If they were like that, you’d never see them bringing along an act like The Armed, who you’d expect to witness the heat-death of the universe before ever setting foot on an arena stage. Both in some of the most volatile noise-rock out there and the lack of a concrete lineup meaning this could be literally anyone onstage, an ecosystem like this might be the most alien thing in the world. Thus, where the small triangle of stage afforded to them would be a hurdle for most, it only intensifies their natural crackle here. By the second song Fortune’s Daughter, the writhing mass of bodies makes it feel like there’s about 20 of them, a far cry from any static band archetype.
At the same time, it’s not hard to see how this is a very hard sell to the modern Biffy devoted. Them being here isn’t an indication of our headliners digging …Jaggy Snake out of their locker or anything; they’re so unquestionably an outlier. And that’s even when the melodic side of The Armed rears up as often as it does here. I Steal What I Want is almost straight post-punk for the most part, and Purity Drag might even glance at a chorus naturalised to this space. But even The Armed themselves are away they’re not making many friends tonight. Thus, closer On Jupiter is facetiously introduced as “a real earworm”, despite being an unfriendly, droning colossus that almost deliberately feels designed to dampen the uninitiated’s spirits. Put them on their home turf with the right crowd, and this would seem like the revelation it’s always pegged as.
Soft Play, on the other hand, are a more familiar name to this crowd. You can tell almost immediately—reception is warmer and more open via a brand of abrasion that’s easier to gravitate towards. The trade-off is that Soft Play are a bit of a one-tricker, but at least that’s done with the utmost vigour. Isaac Holman provides the charge all on his own, a brick shithouse of a man who stands up to batter his drums and shout himself blue in the face. The whole thing feels designed to evoke a pair of scrappy garage-punk roughnecks, regardless of the Co-Op Live being in a different universe from any such reality. Both Holman and guitarist Laurie Vincent venture into the crowd before Fuck The Hi-Hat, to crystallise Soft Play’s rejection of arena etiquette in favour of punk cred at a premium.
It might seem rather performative if they didn’t have the might in performance to back it up. Punk’s Dead omits the contributions of Robbie Williams from its recorded counterpart, perhaps for that exact reason. Still, it’s a ripper in its own right, particularly in how violent its drum thwacks are, and how the rudimentary foundations of Soft Play can still saw through a venue this size. Followed by a double dose of Girl Fight and its women-only mosh pit, and closing with The Hunter that’s still wholly tendons and gristle in its guitar loop, Soft Play do justify themselves rather well. Maybe not to a degree where they’re headlining here, but, y’know…there’s something here.
Of course, there’s no such trepidation in deciding whether our headliners belong here. Despite this being their first time in the Co-Op Live, the arena boards are well-trodden for Biffy Clyro, regardless of specifics. And while, production-wise, there’s not an in-your-face extravagance to this, the restraint that they practice is a better move. The closest they come is being silhouetted under sheets for the first half of A Little Love, raised to reveal the tiered stage setup for them to explore. That’s mainly it, though. Fireworks and confetti are far less prevalent than you might imagine, saved for noteworthy moments instead of acting as a flex of the production budget’s size. Instead, the music is in clearer focus than anything, a move that pays off in absolute spades.
For one, the expanded live lineup enriches the sound by considerable levels. Naomi Macleod is the fill-in bassist, meaning that every non-Dave Lombardo member of Empire State Bastard is here for immediate, reconstituting chemistry. Equally of note is the duo of Annemarie and Gillian on violins, the arguable lynchpin of the show in just how much their small contributions add. In a set that’s heavy on its ballads, it simply makes sense to have them, no less when songs like Space and A Thousand And One are elevated to heartfelt stunners, almost through them alone. There’s also Biblical, of course, which would be enough of a justification for live strings by itself. It’s as towering and majestic among the Biffy canon as ever, visualised through Simon Neil at the summit of the stage as its commandeering ringleader.
Any criticism of Biffy’s recent work being a bit too toothless has been firmly ousted here. Post-Opposites washiness has no presence; even material from Futique (still holding steady as their weakest album) finds it footing with deftness. In particular, Shot One feels like a really worthy addition to the live catalogue. It slots cleanly among the latter-day highlights reel of Tiny Indoor Fireworks’ pop-rock rip, or Instant History as a big rock slab buffed by its own propulsion. On that same token, you almost forget that Wolves Of Winter is among this ‘newer’ class, such is the balance maintained between slamming angularity and a roof-raising hook like a seasoned classic.
Though even then, it’s obviously the established hits that swing the hardest, the songs that ordained Biffy Clyro to this level in the first place. The first of those aired is That Golden Rule, sounding hard as nails against the erratic lights and stabs of strings. Most of the others are saved for the end, to illustrate how deep the stylistic bench of this band runs even at their biggest. It sure is whiplash-inducing to have the gentle acoustics of Machines in such close quarters of Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies, but both being long-established corners of the Biffy brand has always made them make sense. Stylistically in between, the anthems come heavy and hard—the bracing, low-slung thud of The Captain; the ever-growing Bubbles that packs about half-a-dozen perfectly executed flourishes into itself; Mountains, one of the seminal British alt-rock cuts of the 2010s. It’s near-unbeatable.
‘Near-unbeatable’ isn’t quite ‘unbeatable’, though. Two People In Love directly follows Mountains and is maybe a little steep of a comedown after The Signature Song. It’s performed as well as everything else but the crowd energy has undoubtedly dissipated at this point, and you’re left with a main-set closer most noteworthy for projecting an extreme close-up of a human eye. To call it a ‘fault’, however, is vastly overstating the level of badness on display. Biffy are so far past anything close to that, it’s not even funny. For proof, just look literally anywhere else in this hour-and-a-half showcase of one of Britain’s finest alt-rock names on unbeatable form. When Many Of Horror wraps things up—the final crystallisation of gorgeous, gentle sweep in a set that’s emphasised all of those traits—it’s as perfect as it gets, even without the final confetti burst to send it over the top. This is still the gold standard of arena evolution, likely never to be topped.
Words by Luke Nuttall
Photos by Maryleen Guevara (Instagram / Website)
