Gig Review: Stereophonics at M&S Bank Arena, Liverpool – 16 December 2025
I have loved Stereophonics since the day I bought Local Boy in the Photograph. Took it to my mate Mark’s house, stuck it on, and that was that. Hooked for life. They were the band that made me feel things early on: about sound, about story, about being from somewhere. But until now, I’d never seen them live.
On 16 December 2025, at Liverpool’s M&S Bank Arena, that changed. They didn’t play Local Boy, but I didn’t care. They gave me everything else, heat, heartbreak, humour, and a reminder of why I fell in love with them in the first place.
From the moment the lights went up, they were on it. Vegas Two Times came out swinging, sharp and confident. I Wanna Get Lost With You brought the romance. More Life Than a Tramp’s Vest was filthy fun – a chaotic crowd-lifter, and frankly, the funeral song I didn’t know I needed. Geronimo hit so hard it ended up on my Dance and Drink and Screw playlist before I’d arrived home. As anticipated, The Bartender and the Thief was pure riot, and There’s Always Gonna Be Something felt like Jones had written it in the dark parts of all our lives.
The beauty of a Stereophonics set is the range. One minute you’re in a rock stomp, the next you’re holding your heart in a singalong. It’s stadium-sized, Motown-tinged, indie-washed and full of light and shadow. The pacing was perfect. The noise was massive. The nostalgia was earned.
Let’s talk about Kelly Jones.
He didn’t just sound great. He looked like sex in a leather jacket. That man was a full-on vision. I’ve always thought he was a good-looking bloke, but, fuck me, live? On stage? Game over.
I’m a man utterly confident in who I am. I’ve no shame in having a male celeb crush list, and Kelly Jones has just earned himself a spot. No disclaimers. No wavering. He does it for me.
Although, he is only short. Surprisingly so. I reckon he could comfortably fit in my dog’s crate, the one beside my bed. And honestly? I’d quite happily keep him in there, playing his ukulele. Not a euphemism. I’d even let him suck my thumb to help him sleep, like I did with my new puppy this past summer. Too much?
At points, he wielded his guitar like it was fused to his body, not just part of the performance, but part of him. It wasn’t forced. Nor showy. It was fluid and magnetic and charged with physicality. I genuinely swooned. It was sex-on-legs, rock star energy. Presence!
An aside, I’ve been eyeing up a Lakeland leather jacket for weeks. Pricey though! It’s my shift from full beard to moustache that started this obsession methinks. It’s the kind of jacket that whispers midlife crisis if you wear it wrong. But after seeing Jones work that stage in one like it was made of sex and confidence, I think I’ve got my answer. I’m getting the jacket. Let people talk.
Anyway. Back to the show.
Then came a moment of truth. “We’ve all had troubles,” Jones said. “Every single one of us. But tonight, we leave them at the door.” I’ve had more than my share lately. The weight of it all hasn’t been subtle. I needed a man like Jones to tell me it’s okay to not be okay. And more importantly, that we deserve a night off from the noise inside our own heads. I let him guide me through one of the most unexpectedly healing gigs I’ve ever been to. In that moment, with that crowd, I was there. In it. Free.
Jones has always had the gift of the gab, but he’s not just filling space. No, he’s building the show around these stories. One of the best came early on, when he talked about starting the band with Stuart Cable at eleven years old, hauling their kit in a trolley up the road to the youth club. “We used to pass his mum on the way — her name was Mable. Yes. Mable Cable.” The whole place lapped it up. Still, that’s how you build loyalty that doesn’t just last albums, but decades.
However, it wasn’t all sweet nostalgia. He also dropped in a belter about Mick Jagger, how the Rolling Stone was running up and down the corridors doing his pre-show warm-ups, all cardio and chaos, and then tried it on with bassist Richard Jones’s wife. Kelly’s delivery was perfect. Half grin, half warning. “It’s that bastard’s fault we’ve all got to keep doing this till we’re fuckin’ 85,” he laughed. It was cheeky, and honest.
And then there was the bit about Mr and Mrs Jones, his song about an affair. “It’s about the kind of thing,” he said, “that might cost you a couple of houses if you’re out there booking hotel rooms under fake names.” Fictional apparently, but also filthy and hilarious. Jones delivers those lines like someone who’s walked the line, tripped over it, and written it all down on hotel notepads.
Jones swapped guitars after almost every song. It became a rhythm of its own. Each track demanded its own weapon. There was no dead air, no delay, just seamless transitions between one musical mood and the next. They were more than tight, they were sharp, considered, and full of purpose.
Alex Zindani killed it on guitar all night, dropping huge, stadium-filling riffs one minute and then switching into slick, almost bluesy licks the next. Mr. Writer and I Wouldn’t Believe Your Radio showed off that textured side of the band. Jamie Morrison’s drum solo genuinely made my heart stop like a thunderclap and reminded me just how powerful a well-placed moment of chaos can be. And Gavin Fitzjohn on sax was pure joy. His playing added this whole other smooth and soulful layer. When he and Jones faced off at the end of the walkway, it became a show within a show, a challenge, a celebration, and a reminder of how deep the talent runs on that stage. Bands with brass fucking rock, right?
Musically, the night didn’t sit still for a second. They opened with Vegas Two Times, full tilt, straight in. I Wanna Get Lost With You was sweeping and romantic. Colours of October felt like a band still pushing themselves into new emotional territory. The pacing was phenomenal, one minute you’re roaring along to Have a Nice Day, the next you’re swaying through Maybe Tomorrow or having your chest caved in by 100MPH during the encore.
Superman was a standout, with Jones snarling through the verses like he had something to prove. Mr and Mrs Smith was another beast altogether — slick, cinematic, laced with danger. And then came the final stretch: Traffic, C’est La Vie, and the ever-immense Dakota, closing the night with the kind of arms-in-the-air, belt-it-out glory that reminds you exactly why this band still sells out arenas three decades on.
And yeah — he teased us blues with all his Anfield talk. Kept reminding us they’d played there. As a dyed-in-the-wool blue, I should’ve been miffed. But I couldn’t stop smiling. From The Lomax in ’96 to now, he’s earned those bragging rights. Especially when he’s casually dropping in stories about chatting with Springsteen or watching Mick Jagger do hallway sprints like a rock ‘n’ roll Benjamin Button. That’s folklore. That’s legacy. And Stereophonics are still writing it.
Stereophonics did more than turn up. They showed up. For the fans, for the thirty years of songs, for the stories. And for themselves. You could feel the pride in every note, the connection in every pause.
I went in a long-time fan. I walked out buzzing, smiling, turned on, and emotionally rinsed in the best possible way.
This was a reminder of everything music can be. Loud. Lush. Honest. Sexy. Joyful. Alive.
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The Broken Spine is a poetry and arts collective proudly published on the coastal edge of North-West England. Founded in 2019 by Alan Parry and Paul Robert Mullen – two school friends reunited after twenty years through a mutual love of poetry.
