As the cold settles over Manchester and winter seeps into the bones of the city, the sun still manages to break through the clouds, casting a rare light over the Northern Quarter. Walking down Oldham Street, I can feel the pull of memories. Manchester has changed, yes, but the soul of it? Still the same. Especially here, where Gullivers stands—a venue that holds as much history as any institution in this city.
Gullivers on Oldham Street, where I met Leroy Richardson, holds a special place in my heart. It’s a place where memories are built, and for many, it’s been a cornerstone of Manchester’s music scene for decades. This intimate music venue, modest in size but vast in spirit, was where I caught my first live gigs as a teenager. It’s the kind of venue where you fall in love with music, not just for the sounds, but for the people who bring it to life. And it’s people like Leroy who have built this rich tapestry that made Manchester the cultural powerhouse it is today.
It’s fitting, then, that I found myself back here, meeting one of the people who helped shape that legacy. In the back room, with one camera, one light, and Paul —who’s becoming known for digging up the stories of Manchester’s past—ready to guide the conversation, we sat down to talk about a different Manchester. The Manchester before it became a capital of cool. The Manchester of grit, rebellion, and explosive creativity.
If you grew up here, even in the shadow of The Hacienda’s heyday, you’ve heard the stories. You’ve heard about the nights that felt like magic, about a city on the cusp of something that no one could quite articulate, but everyone could feel. And when you hear stories from those who were there, who lived it, you start to get a glimpse of what Manchester was really like. The music that tore through this city didn’t just create a scene—it created a movement. And what people like me grew up hearing in hushed tones, as legend, was real for those who were at the heart of it all.
Sitting there, I’m reminded that Manchester’s music scene wasn’t built on rock stars or headlining acts. It was built on people. The community, the friendships, the fantastic energy that surged through places like The Hacienda. They were the lifeblood, and this was about one of those key figures who had his hands on the pulse of it all.
The interview itself was more like a conversation between old mates, wandering down memory lane with laughter and stories. From the days before the music industry knew what was coming, to the moment the Acid House wave crashed over the city and turned it into something else entirely—those nights of raw, rebellious magic still feel alive in the words, even if the venues themselves have long been replaced. The place next to Night and Day where the UK’s first designer bar stood (Dry Bar) is now just a footnote in the city’s rapid gentrification. But the memories, the feeling of it, that can’t be erased.
As we talked, I could see the glint in his eyes as we hit on those memories, names of people who are still, in many ways, part of his extended family. The funny thing is, people didn’t go to The Hacienda or these other iconic places for the music alone...they went for the people. For the mates, the family, the scene itself. That’s what built Manchester’s Music legacy. Music was the heartbeat, sure, but it was the people who gave it life.
After the interview, we took a walk down Oldham Street, stopping here and there as the stories continued. “That used to be this, so-and-so worked there,” each point of interest unfolding like a secret history. The memories feel almost tangible, layered over the modern city that’s grown up in their place.
As we walked, it became even more apparent that the magic isn’t gone. It’s just different now. The Northern Quarter, for all its polish and trendiness, still has that undercurrent of creativity, that feeling that anything could happen. But it’s the people who lived through Manchester’s musical birth that keep its story alive. Even today, there are shouts from across the street, old acquaintances eager to reconnect. The bond between those who were part of the scene isn’t something you can put into words—it’s in the way they talk about the past, the way they look at each other, the way the city still recognises them, even decades on.
For me, this project—Faces in Music—is more than just an recollection of Manchester’s past. It’s a way to bridge that gap between what the city was and what it is now. It’s a chance to remember that while venues may come and go, while the music might change, the people who created this city’s legacy are still here. They’re the ones who turned Manchester into something more than a city—they turned it into a cultural movement. And for that, I’m grateful to be a part of the story, to capture these memories before they fade completely.
Walking away from that afternoon, I realised something: Manchester isn’t just about the music. It’s about the people who made the music, the people who danced to it, who built their lives around it. The venues, the streets, the stories—they're all part of the same fabric. And even if the city changes, the legacy remains, woven through the memories of those who lived it.
So, the next time you walk down Oldham Street and the , I want you to take a moment. Look around. The city might not look the same, but if you listen closely, you can still hear the echoes of what made it legendary. And in the end, it’s not the music alone that did it—it’s the people who made the music, and the people who made the scene. That’s the heartbeat of Manchester.
Comments