Paul McCartney at Manchester Co-op Live – A Living Legend Who Refuses to Fucking Quit

Paul McCartney is 82 years old. Let’s start there. Because it’s impossible to wrap your head around what that actually means until you’re in a room—scratch that, an arena—watching him tear through a setlist that spans The Beatles, Wings, and sixty-plus years of solo work. On a miserable December night in Manchester, Macca rolled into town for the first of two shows at Co-op Live, the UK leg of his Got Back tour. And even after the long wait, the rail chaos, and the damp slog across the Etihad Campus, it was clear: this was a night none of us would forget.

I travelled in with my eldest, my kid, who’s as deep into The Beatles as you can get. He picked up a guitar because of Paul McCartney. He’s had his moments—he’s grown his hair down his back and gone through an AC/DC phase—but ask him where it started, and he’ll say, ‘The Beatles.’ His first public performance? Twist and Shout. Not Back in Black, not some godawful pop-punk ballad—Twist and Shout. That’s The Beatles’ grip on the world: their songs are so deeply entrenched in our lives that they become us. To see Paul live, in the flesh, with my son beside me was emotional in a way I didn’t quite expect.

And here’s the thing: we weren’t the only ones. The arena was packed with families, kids, teenagers, parents, and pensioners—three, sometimes four generations of fans all watching a Beatle do his thing. If you’re a kid whose first gig was Paul McCartney, you’ve peaked early. That’s it. It’s all downhill from here. When I was 14, I saw Sheryl Crow at the Manchester Apollo back in 1997. Great show. She covered McCartney tunes that night because, well, of course she did. That’s what happens when you write half the songs that matter in music history.

And the man still fucking delivers. He opened with A Hard Day’s Night—a song that’s nearly sixty years old—and it still sounded fresh, still had the crowd erupting like it was brand new. His voice isn’t perfect anymore. He’s 82; how could it be? But here’s the kicker: it doesn’t matter. His presence—that cocky charm, that full-beam joy—shines so brightly you forget his age entirely. He’s up there for nearly three hours, no breaks, pounding through 36 songs. How many other octogenarians could pull that off? Hell, how many 42-year-olds could pull that off? I’m half his age, and he puts me to shame.

The setlist was relentless, pulling from the deepest well of hits in music history. Blackbird was stunning, its simple beauty amplified by the crowd’s reverent silence. Something, played as a tribute to George Harrison on a uke that George gifted him, hit like a gut punch—pure, unfiltered grief wrapped up in love. Live and Let Die nearly burned the place down with pyrotechnics so loud they could’ve been a warning shot to every other band on the planet: you’ll never top this, so don’t even try.

Then there was Hey Jude, the arena-wide singalong that became more like a hymn than a song. ‘Na-na-na-na’ echoed across the rafters, passed between parents and kids, strangers and friends. It’s in those moments you realise McCartney’s true legacy: he’s more than a musician. He’s a thread connecting us across generations.

And that legacy isn’t something abstract. It’s happening right now. Macca knows what he’s doing. He knows he’s giving younger generations—kids who weren’t even a thought when Let It Be was released—the chance to say they saw one of The Beatles. And he knows that time is running out. Because let’s not pretend: this won’t last forever. He’s closer to shuffling off than we’d like to admit, and that makes this whole experience hit even harder.

He wrapped the show with Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight, and The End—and yes, that famous final line still lands like a sledgehammer: ‘And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.’ Macca signed off with a promise—’I’ll be back’—and maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past him.

But if this was his last bow, what a fucking way to go out. Paul McCartney doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone. He’s already written the greatest songs ever recorded, and he’s already earned the title of the world’s greatest living songwriter. But watching him perform, you realise he’s not doing it to prove anything. He’s doing it because he loves it. Because this is what he was born to do.

And, really, that’s the takeaway here. Never take a legend for granted. Never assume you’ll get another chance to see someone like Paul McCartney. If you get the opportunity, grab it with both hands and hold on for dear life. Because when he’s gone, he’s gone, and we’ll never see the likes of him again.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ The greatest to ever do it, proving why he still holds the crown.