As someone who grew up seeing Damon Albarn bossing Britpop with the Fred Perry-clad, ever-pogoing Blur, it’s strange to think that he’s now presiding over a globe-spanning, genre-melting cartoon collective. Gorillaz might actually be the more significant legacy, too. I mean, imagine that? It’s just greed to be in TWO earth crushing bands, isn’t it? And yet, on this evidence, it makes perfect sense that Gorillaz are so renowned. I’ll begin by saying I was completely and utterly blown away.
It seems that this experience is not even really a gig, but something closer to a living, breathing art installation. From the very first moments in Liverpool, Gorillaz don’t so much take the stage as assemble a universe, where the opening title track “The Mountain” unfolds like a mission statement; Indian folk textures woven through a dense, layered groove. Visuals introducing the band’s animated members, as if summoning them into existence, completely bewitch me. The roar that greets Noodle, 2-D, Murdoc and Russell is astonishing. If I’m honest, it’s unexpectedly emotional. All the time I’m thinking how the hell I’ve I ended up here?
There’s something profound about thousands of people cheering fictional characters. In that moment, it felt like a collective act of belief. A nod to the universe that imagination still matters, that joy still cuts through, that creativity hasn’t been dulled by the heaviness of the shitty world outside. It caught me off guard, and that feeling of being fully immersed in something bigger than a standard gig never really lets up all night.
With Gorillaz, Albarn refuses to sit still stylistically. And live, that becomes a kind of controlled chaos in Liverpool. “The Happy Dictator” arrives early and already feels like a classic. Satirical, yes, but delivered with such euphoric force that the entire arena is singing it back like it’s a festival anthem. And I later discover that it’s actually Sparks on the studio version of the track. Albarn’s use of that crackly PA mic gives it a strange, distant quality, like you’re hearing a pirate broadcast from some parallel pop universe.
From there, the set dips into the back catalogue .“Tranz”, “Tomorrow Comes Today”, and “19-2000”, which suddenly drenches the die-hards (and there’s plenty) in nostalgia. The “la la la” refrain of “19-2000” becomes a kind of communal chant, but what’s remarkable is how seamlessly it all fits together. Hip-hop, electronica, dub, indie, world music. It should feel disjointed. It doesn’t. It feels expansive.
It also helps that the band on stage look like they’re having the absolute time of their lives. Jeff Wootton (yes, still faintly resembling Super Hans if Super Hans had discovered funk) throws himself around with reckless joy, bassist Seye Adelekan grooves like his limbs are independently powered, and the whole ensemble – from percussionists to backing vocalists – radiates this infectious, unfiltered energy. There’s a moment during “Andromeda” where everything locks into this shimmering, late-night groove, and you realise just how tight this supposedly loose, genre-hopping machine really is.
Then “El Mañana” and “On Melancholy Hill” bring a different mood; dreamy, melancholic, slightly aching. Albarn leans into these with a softness that contrasts beautifully with the bombast elsewhere, the crowd swaying rather than bouncing.
Of course, this is Gorillaz, so the guest list is like how is this even logistically possible? Bootie Brown storms “Dirty Harry”, completely owning it, while later “Clint Eastwood” turns into a full-blown arena moment – swaggering, playful, impossible not to move to. When “Feel Good Inc.” finally arrives, led by Posdnuos, it’s exactly what you want it to be: ecstatic and communal. I can’t help but get out of my seat. The crowd erupts, and for a few minutes Liverpool is basically one giant, bouncing organism.
But threaded through all of this celebration is something more poignant. Tracks like “Stylo” and “Delirium” carry the voices of collaborators no longer here (Bobby Womack and Mark E. Smith), but instead of feeling like tributes, they feel like continuations, as part of the ongoing story. At one point, Albarn pauses, looks up at the screen, and applauds. No theatrics. Just respect.
And that’s just part of why Albarn impressed me so much. It’s hard to overstate just how much my perception of him shifted over the course of the night. I already knew he was talented, but the sheer range of what he’s doing here, and the willingness to blend genres, cultures, collaborators, formats … it’s extraordinary and fearless. And yet, he never dominates the stage. Often, he feels like just one piece of a much larger puzzle, stepping back, letting others shine, even letting animated versions of his bandmates take centre stage. But what really stuck with me was his connection with the crowd. Mid-song, he’s down at the barrier, signing things, taking selfies, crouching to talk to kids in the front rows. Not in a performative, “look at me being nice” kind of way, but just naturally, casually. Like that connection really matters to him. In an arena of that size, this kind of intimacy is rare.
By the time “The Manifesto” explodes into life, with talented Argentinian rapper, Trueno, tearing through his verse, the show hits a kind of ecstatic peak. It’s messy, loud, collaborative, borderless. I’d walked in as a casual observer, and walked out slightly dazed. The whole thing left me unexpectedly emotional, and fully, unquestionably, converted.
Evidently, Gorillaz aren’t just a band. They’re a world. A collage. A celebration of everything music can be when it stops worrying about what it’s supposed to be.
And yes – I went home and bought the entire back catalogue on vinyl. It felt like the only sensible thing to do.
Photo Credit: Luke Dyson
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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.
