Live Review: Sex Pistols – Castlefield Bowl, Manchester
12th July 2026
Support: Dr John Cooper Clarke, The Undertones
Words: Dan Barnes
Photos: Tim Finch
It’s a glorious summer’s day here in Manchester and the perfect conditions for the return of punk deities to the city where – if legend is to be believed – their show at the Free Trade Hall launched the careers of a host of legacy punk and new wave bands and led to the formation of Factory Records; the film Twenty-Four Hour Party People tells the story far better than I could. As it happens, my walk out to the Bowl from the middle of town passes the old Hacienda, once the heartbeat of the thriving Madchester scene of the early Nineties, now luxury apartments.
As part of Manchester’s Sounds of the City, the Bowl hosts three of punk’s most endearing and influential musical acts, and the Bard of Salford himself, Dr John Cooper Clarke. Derry rockers, The Undertones have the honour of opening this special show, their blend of punk rock and new wave means they have a broader commercial appeal than tonight’s headliners. Evidenced by the number of historic band shirts milling about the Bowl this evening, the Northern Irishman take to the stage with the comment of “We mean you no harm” before cranking into some fat sounding good time vibes. Male Model gets a big singalong, The Love Parade slithers, with a mid-section that shows pop sensibilities. Frontman, Paul McLoone takes some time to wave at the stationary train waiting to continue into Deansgate, which has the crowd doing the same, and receiving a greeting from the driver in return. Jimmy, Jimmy has Castlefield bouncing, It’s Gonna Happen features some classic Undertones storytelling, Here Comes the Summer is introduced with a reminder that the band will be headlining the Ritz in October, and the driving punk rock of Get Over You brings the set to a close in style. Obviously, The Undertones played their two biggest songs: no matter how old it gets, Teenage Kicks is still the stone-cold punk classic that is widely known outside the genre, whereas My Perfect Cousin is like the best kept secret within it.
Punk poet, Dr John Cooper Clarke arrived to offer his unique perspective on subjects as diverse as questions he cannot answer, hire cars, filthy limericks, necrophilia, fluctuating weight due to opioid use, pies, and the poem that got him kicked off Deathrow Records. I won’t try to repeat any of them as I don’t have the verbal dexterity of the doctor.
I think this is the first time I’ve seen Belfast’s finest, Stiff Little Fingers, without them using Go For It as their intro tape. Instead, it was straight into Tin Soldiers and a truncated, festival version, of the show they placed over at the Academy back in March. It never ceases to amaze me the obsessive devotion shown to the Fingers by their life-long fans; shirts from every tour are to be seen, families, three generations strong, all wearing era-appropriate merchandise. Nobody’s Hero is an undeniable classic, the cover of Bunny Wailer’s Ska-infused Roots, Radicals, Rockers, Reggae is all-but owned by Jake and the boys by this point.
Jake even comments that they’re usually in Manchester when it’s raining, rather than the sun beating down on the Bowl; deep cut Back to Front goes down well with the older crowd, Emergency is a debut staple and Silver Linings is introduced with a history lesson, when the Government rode rough-shod over the voters and made life so very much harder than it needed to be. Good job it isn’t like that anymore! And to any Americans here today, Jake explained, that is what’s called sarcasm.
At the Edge, Bits of Kids and another cover that is a Finger’s song in everything except title, The Specials’ Doesn’t Make It Alright take the set into the closing section. Fade Away, Wasted Life and Gotta Get Away give way to Suspect Device and Alternative Ulster. It lasted an hour, but showed Stiff Little Fingers is as vital now as ever they were.
And, so to the main event: fifty-years on and not many bands could maintain the level of influence after having released just a solitary album. Sex Pistols feat Frank Carter is the real deal and, as much as I respect and admire Mr Lydon, his absence is excusable as Mr Carter, once of Gallows and without his Rattlesnakes, seems to be having the time of his life with his dream job. Dr John makes the introductions – should they been needed – as the level of anticipation swirling around the Bowl on the late evening wind is palpable.
The band amble out, Glen Matlock runs a comb through his silver locks before strapping on his bass, and Mr Carter, clad in a The Smiths t-shirt, wonders up to the microphone, takes in the applause and the Pistols kick into Holidays in the Sun. To say it’s a punk rock classic would be an understatement as the same can – and should – be said for the whole of the Never Mind the Bollocks: Here’s the Sex Pistols album, all of which get aired tonight.
Seventeen and New York prove the depth of Never Mind…, showing the deeper cuts can still compete with the more well-known tunes. Frank heads into the crowd for Pretty Vacant, tempering his call for a circle pit with the acceptance of the average age of the audience. A shout out to the NHS for the sterling work with knee-replacements gets a giggle, and he’s raised on high and transported back to the stage above head height. Bodies comes with a big singalong and an extended conclusion, Paul Revere and the Raiders’ I’m Not Your Stepping Stone is dedicated to the support acts, with this one particularly fitting Frank’s vocal style.
Liar starts with the question as to whether the Bowl is ready to bounce, and it isn’t long before the walking wounded at being brought out of the crowd for medical attention. A surfer goes over during God Save the Queen, as the band forget the stereotype that Punks can’t play and messrs Cook, Jones and Matlock lock into a groove. We’re introduced to the band – as if anyone in the Bowl needed such formalities tonight – before a cover of The Stooges’ No Fun, in which Frank has his mum on video call. No Feelings, Problems and EMI prove the wider debt bands owe to the Pistols, and their brief back-catalogue needs to be played and heard live. Phones and lighters are requested for My Way, a tribute to Sid, and the show ends in the only way possible, with Anarchy in the UK.
Folk will say that this isn’t the Sex Pistols, but my ticket says it is and, if you read Lonely Boy: Tales from a Sex Pistol by Steve Jones (London: Randon House, 2016) he talks of a time before John joined the band in August 1975. Regardless, bands of this duration change personnel, Frank just happens to be the Pistols’ current singer, and a damn good job he’s doing of it too.
The PA falls silent and Castlefield Bowl is left shattered and stunned by the show. It’s not often Punk Rock Royalty of this stature comes to town, but when it does it leaves Manchester devastated in its wake.
Could be gig of the year!
Photo credits: Tim Finch
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