There can be few homecomings in modern music that carry as much weight as Morrissey’s return to Manchester. A city shaped by his shadow, and vice versa. On Saturday night, under the curving steel and LED glare of Co-op Live, that relationship was renewed once more, not as a retrospective, not quite as a reckoning.

From the moment he stepped into the spotlight, gladioli in hand, shirt provocatively unfastened, a crimson pendant resting on his chest, there was a theatricality to it all. But not a performance. If anything, Morrissey seemed more rooted than he has in years. “I’m here, my God I’m here,” he announced, not so much with arrogance as with a sigh of arrival. It was part affirmation, part challenge.

And then came How Soon Is Now?. Three songs in, drenched in that droning, mesmerising guitar line. Morrissey sang it not like a man reliving his past, but like someone still bleeding from the cut. The crowd met him word for word, line for line, louder than the band, louder than the ghosts.

The set wasn’t designed to please casual fans. It wasn’t indulgent either. Rather, it showed a man who knows his discography deeply, and knows the kind of audience that’s still with him. Songs from World Peace Is None of Your Business and I Am Not a Dog on a Chain rubbed shoulders with long-ignored gems from Southpaw Grammar and Ringleader of the Tormentors. There were selections from the still-shelved Bonfire of Teenagers, played not like works in progress but like statements fully formed. I Ex-Love You came with a grin, while Rebels Without Applause and Bonfire itself landed with unmistakable intensity.

Bonfire remains a song that unsettles. It speaks plainly about a wound this city still carries, and Morrissey didn’t sugar-coat it. Stooped at the edge of the stage, voice strained but steady, he delivered it like someone giving evidence. It was the least performative moment of the night, and perhaps the most affecting.

Then came the ballads, the bruises we all came to hear. I Know It’s Over shimmered with brittle tenderness. Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me swelled like a tide. Shoplifters of the World Unite punched through the reverie, sending arms and voices skyward, reminding everyone of how much spirit still remains in these old songs.

Throughout, Morrissey was in fine voice. Husky in places, bell-clear in others, always committed. He whipped his mic lead with the grace of old, prowling the stage in slow arcs. There was banter too, as dry and deadpan as ever. “Some people came from Wilmslow… they work in Waitrose,” he muttered. “Some from Prestwich… they don’t work.” A dig, a wink, a laugh. Classic Moz.

The show had moments of levity, but it also had teeth. Jack the Ripper was cloaked in smoke and deep crimson light, almost cinematic in its sense of dread. Scandinavia, seldom aired live, stomped and snarled with surprising energy, while The Loop hit with a rockabilly snarl that wouldn’t be out of place in a 1950s drag race.

Yet perhaps the most telling moments were found not in what he said or played, but how he let them land. Irish Blood, English Heart was near drowned out by fans reaching for him, physically and emotionally. The barriers were ornamental by that point, dozens surged forward to clasp his hand. A few got lucky. A shirt was thrown into the crowd. Elation was instant. There’s a messianic energy to these gestures, but in truth, they feel more like rituals, human contact from someone whose words have threaded through their lives.

For all the headlines, for all the fault-finding, nothing quite dislodges the emotional spine of a Morrissey show. The man may divide, but the songs still unite. And on a night like this, that was enough. More than enough.

In spite of himself, Morrissey endures, and for those who know, there’s no substitute.