David Gray – O2 Apollo, Manchester – Live Review

David Gray’s Past & Present world tour isn’t just a curtain call for a cherished back catalogue—it’s a living, breathing document of an artist who has outlasted trends through sheer emotional conviction. Touring in support of his thirteenth studio album Dear Life, Gray returns to Manchester’s O2 Apollo—a sold-out homecoming just a stone’s throw from his native Sale—with the quiet assurance of someone who knows exactly why his songs still matter. For the fans filling every row, many of whom have been with him since the White Ladder days, this isn’t just another night out. It’s a communion, decades in the making.

He opens with After the Harvest, a hushed, piano-led swell that gently sets the tone. The lyrics land softly but carry weight, change and the slow unwinding of life’s rhythms. It’s Gray in his element: not grabbing attention, but holding it with care. The start of set leans into new material, but it doesn’t take long for the room to warm into full voice. My Oh My paves the way, but it’s White Ladder that tips the balance—familiar, intimate, and still charged after all these years. By the time Please Forgive Me rolls around, the O2 is in full chorus, arms aloft, voices cracked with memory. It’s less nostalgia and more muscle memory—the sound of lives intertwined with song.

Gray doesn’t shy away from looking inward. He introduces Leave Taking with a candid reflection on the pandemic’s creative paralysis. “I didn’t write anything properly for a year and a half,” he admits, before describing how the songs of Dear Life came in a sudden rush once the fog lifted. The performance is stark and tender, a late-evening hush falling over the room. It’s one of several moments that reveal the man behind the music—wry, thoughtful, just a touch battle-worn.

That said, he’s not above some playful grumbling. “If ever there was a time to sit down and listen for four minutes, this is it,” he says, a bemused smile playing across his face as he rails against mid-set toilet trips and what he calls “those f***ing two-pint buckets.” He handles hecklers with seasoned grace, offering gentle pushback when their overenthusiasm threatens to derail the spell.

Visually, the show is clean and unfussy—no gimmicks, just light and shadow playing across a minimal stage setup. There’s something in Gray’s physicality, all carefully measured movements and deliberate stillness, that evokes David Byrne—not in eccentricity, but in clarity of intent. Midway through, he offers up a spellbinding cover of Sandy Denny’s Who Knows Where the Time Goes, which fits seamlessly into the evening’s tapestry. But it’s Babylon that brings the house to its feet, a rush of joy and release that turns the Apollo into one giant singalong.

And then, for the encore, the inevitable. “We’re off down the Manchester shipping canal,” he quips, before easing into Sail Away—as tender and luminous as ever. The song floats out into the room like a benediction, the crowd swaying as one, each note a quiet celebration.

David Gray doesn’t chase reinvention—he distils what’s true and lets it shine. Tonight, in a city that shaped him, he offers songs that still carry the pulse of real life. It’s a homecoming bathed in heart, humility, and the kind of brilliance that never fades.