There is a shaky kind of magic in ‘firsts’.
On Friday the 13th, while everyone else was probably tucked away trying to avoid any bad luck, I was running in my ballet flats to New Century Hall, like a real life frazzled English woman (Kiera Knightley eat your heart out). Having finished a day of exploring a city I now call home, this wasn’t just my first shoot in a new city; it felt like a test for my new version of adulthood.
I walked into New Century Hall with a familiar buzz in my tummy, the kind of nerves I always get before a show, but as soon as I saw the iconic illuminated ceiling, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
The night began with Fletchr Fletchr where it’s rare that a support act doesn’t actually feel like a support act. They commanded the room and as it slowly filled up, you could tell that people were hooked on every lyric they sang. There’s an infectious brightness to their sound, something akin to arena rock that is ready to bring any room down, whilst maintaining this sense of realness that kind of takes your breath away.
There was a moment in their set that felt like the air had been sucked out of the room in the most profound way. Rohan Fletcher performed a song about his father passing away and as someone who carries that same weight, I felt a shift before I even felt it in the crowd. It was a raw, bruisingly, honest moment that cemented them as so much more than just a band performing on stage. Seeing him channel his grief into the music made me feel less alone in my own and it was at that moment they truly didn’t just win me over, but the whole room. By the time their set ended, the initial nerves I’d carried with me through the door had completely left. All that was left was a genuine shared connection, not only with Fletchr Fletchr, but with the rest of the growing crowdThen came Master Peace who quite literally turned up the energy until it felt like the room was shaking and spinning. The kind of spinning you get when you wake up the next morning and regret that extra glass of wine you had after saying you “weren’t going to drink that much”. It was chaotic in the most delicious way possible – a high voltage reminder of why live music is the only thing that really makes sense sometimes. Throwing himself into the crowd, getting everybody jumping and throwing themselves around felt like the perfect in between before Good Neighbours came on.
The real moment, however, came when Good Neighbours stormed the stage. This felt like a full-circle moment for me. Just last year, I was interviewing the boys back in Cardiff, standing at the top of some stairs outside a studio that had a dance class happening inside. To stand here now, camera in hand, in a brand new city I’ve only been in for a week, felt like a quiet affirmative nod from the universe.
If you’ve spent any time with their discography, you’ll know their music carries a certain kindness and brightness, but seeing it live in New Century Hall is an entirely different beast. It’s one thing to hear their harmonies through your headphones or when you’re in a van driving to Manchester to start a new life, but it’s another thing to hear them reflected off the walls of a room that was built for the very purpose of bringing people together. There is a tangible, sun drenched warmth to Scott and Oli’s presence; they don’t just play at you, they invite you into the world they’ve built.
The energy was relentless. Whether it was the anthemic moments that had the entire room shaking or the more intimate, stripped back moments that made you feel like you were the only one there. They moved across the stage with this ease that felt both professional and wonderfully unpolished – a reminder that despite the growing venues and the sold out crowds, they are still just two friends making music that matters.
The room was electric, a sea of people just existing freely, fuelled by melodies that feel like a hug from an old friend. I found myself tucked in the pit, singing along to the songs, cheering along with the best of them, realising that for the first time all week, my brain was quiet. I wasn’t thinking about that one box I still need to unpack or the streets I didn’t know the names of yet, or the fact that I keep getting lost, despite the fact I have Maps on my phone and I am following directions. I was just there, capturing the crowd’s reactions and the music that was played before me on the stage. There was a moment during Keep It Up (my favourite track by them) where I looked up at the ceiling and then back at the boys and I realised that music is the only thing that actually stays the same when everything else is changing. It’s the constant.
By the time the final notes echoed out and I was following all of my new neighbours out of the doors, that frazzled feeling I had come with had completely transformed. It’s funny how a room filled with strangers can suddenly feel like a safety net. Walking up the steps back to the main street, the city didn’t feel quite so daunting anymore. I realised that the test (so to speak) of adulthood isn’t about knowing every street name or having a perfectly unpacked kitchen, it’s about making new friends with the girl who runs the cloakroom or spending time with other photographers after you’re done shooting.
Manchester, if this is the welcome committee, then I think I’m going to be just fine. I’m still the same girl I was in Cardiff and maybe I always will be, but somehow standing in New Century Hall, I felt that familiar safety I have been searching for. It turns out, you don’t leave your heart behind when you move, you just find new rooms for it to dance and sing in.
