Review & Photography by Manny Manson for MPM
Jon Otway has never fitted neatly into anyone’s idea of how a pop star should behave, look, or even survive, and that is precisely why he is still here, still touring, still selling merch, and still smashing microphones with his forehead nearly five decades after most sensible people would have taken the hint and stopped. Long before he walked onto the Rock City stage on 19 December 2025 with his trusty sidekick Deadly in tow, Otway had already lived several musical lives.
After deciding he was going to be a pop star at the age of 9, He first crashed into public consciousness in 1977 with “Really Free”, a song that should have been remembered simply as a punk-era hit, but instead became immortal for the moment he leapt onto a microphone stand on live television and it collapsed beneath him. Blood, confusion, determination and an unwavering refusal to stop all happened at once, and in that moment, Jon Otway accidentally defined his entire career. He was never going to be slick. He was never going to be tidy. He was never going to go quietly. What he was going to do was keep going, turning near misses into mythology, embarrassment into comedy, and chaos into a kind of defiant art form.
Since then, Otway has existed slightly to the left of the music industry, releasing records independently, mounting increasingly absurd chart campaigns, touring relentlessly, and building a cult following who understand that an Otway gig is not just a set of songs but a full-blown theatrical experience. His live shows are part concert, part stand-up routine, part motivational speech for the terminally stubborn. He moves at a frantic pace, grinning like a man who can’t quite believe he’s still getting away with it, delivering songs with the wild-eyed energy of Max Wall colliding headfirst with Tommy Cooper, except the fez is optional and the punchlines are often delivered with a guitar still ringing loudly behind them.
From the second he appears onstage at Rock City, Otway is already mid-flow, already talking, already smiling. Deadly stands beside him, expressionless and ominous, surrounded by instruments that look deliberately chosen to cause problems. Otway launches straight into “Hit”, (Really Free,1977) that eternal declaration of intent and frustration, delivered with a raw, scrappy sound that feels permanently on the verge of falling apart but never quite does. His voice isn’t polished, but it’s urgent, full of belief, and pushed forward by sheer force of will. Between lines, he explains how this song was meant to be the one, how it nearly was, how it still could be if the universe would just get its act together. The crowd laughs, not because they don’t believe him, but because they absolutely do. This is Otway’s gift: making his own optimism feel like a shared joke everyone wants to be in on.
“B-Side” follows naturally, this song “Beware of the Flowers Cause I’m Sure They’re Going to Get You Yeah” was voted the seventh greatest lyric of all time in a grassroots poll run by the BBC, a John Lennon lyric being No6. Now sounding slightly looser, slightly scruffier, with Otway weaving in stories about how sometimes the wrong song gets pushed, how the better track ends up hidden away, much like his own career. He paces constantly, never standing still for more than a second, smiling at the crowd as if daring them to keep up. The sound is raw, almost punky in places, driven more by momentum than precision, and that’s exactly what makes it work. You don’t watch Otway for perfection; you watch him because anything could happen at any moment.
Then comes “Blockbuster”, and before a note is played, Otway produces the now-infamous Siamese twin-headed guitar, hinged in the middle like a piece of experimental medical equipment. The sight of it alone sends Rock City into laughter and cheers. The thing looks utterly unplayable, and Otway treats it as such, wrestling with it, grinning wildly, revelling in how ridiculous it all looks. He says he’s going to play the SWEET cover, its either genius or suicide especially being on the under card for said band. The sound lurches and clatters, but the energy is enormous, and Otway knows exactly when to lean into the chaos and when to pull it back just enough to keep the song on track as he narrates his way through this glam classic howling like a werewolf as he goes, the crowd joining in as he does so, the guitar being flexed and its necks flapping as it screams in agonal, distorted bliss. Cooper style genius .
“U R Breaking Up” brings a brief moment of reflection, though even that is delivered at speed. Otway talks about who he is, where he stands, and how he’s never quite been what anyone asked for. The song has a surprisingly solid backbone live, the chords ringing out with a rough honesty that cuts through the jokes. His smile never leaves his face, but there’s an edge of truth underneath it that lands hard.
“Middle of Winter” feels perfectly placed in December, and Otway acknowledges that, talking about cold nights, colder venues, and the strange comfort of refusing to stop. The sound here is more restrained, the crowd leaning in a little closer, and for a brief moment the room listens rather than laughs. Naturally, Otway doesn’t let the seriousness linger for long, puncturing it with a grin and a throwaway comment before bouncing straight into “Louisa on a Horse”. This is introduced as the song with the girl’s voice in a box, and Otway explains the concept in a way that somehow makes less sense the longer he talks. When the song kicks in, it’s bright, bouncy, and charmingly odd, with the recorded voice popping in like a character from a half-remembered children’s programme. Otway plays it with exaggerated enthusiasm, throwing himself into every chord, his delivery half sung, half declaimed, like he’s addressing the back row of a theatre rather than a rock club.
During “Louisa on a Horse”, the inevitable happens. Otway produces a microphone stuck into a coat hanger, an act of DIY engineering that looks spectacularly unsafe. Within moments it falls off. Without missing a beat, Deadly steps in, holding the microphone up at head height while Otway repeatedly runs into it, launching himself forward as if attacking his own equipment. Otway pauses to explain that he once did exactly this while Wilko Johnson was watching one of his shows, as though that somehow validates the entire situation. He then explains where he’s from, although the explanation veers off into tangents so frequently that geography becomes entirely optional.
“Bob” arrives with the declaration that Deadly wants to be a pop star, despite having absolutely no talent. Otway demonstrates this by having a go at a Bob Dylan song, a pop star who he said he could manage to emulate, deliberately mangling it, before handing over to Deadly for his big moment. Deadly steps forward and delivers one, then two suck-blows on a mouth organ. It’s a reworking of the Gloria Gaynor tune “I Will Survive” done in the bob Dylan style. That’s it. Rock City erupts. The cheers are massive, disproportionate, and completely sincere. Otway beams like a proud but slightly bewildered parent. “Bunsen Burner” is introduced with obvious pride. Otway explains that 25 years after his first hit, he finally had another one, inspired by his daughter’s chemistry homework. It’s apparently a disco number, although, as Otway cheerfully admits, you’d never know it from the way he plays it. Deadly contributes the immortal “Burn baby burn” from his box, while Otway explains how he finally got the ‘S’ on the right side of “Hit”, pushing the song to number nine in the charts. The sound is gloriously clattery, full of momentum and mischief, and the crowd laps it up.
The B-side to this unexplained hit was the ‘Hit Mix’, a cover of “The House Of The Rising Sun” and it descends into beautiful chaos, with Otway claiming it was recorded with a thousand hecklers in Abbey Road Studios. The song is full of shouts from the crowd as Otway tries to sing. Eventually, someone shouts “Who’s a prat?” and Otway instantly responds, “I’m the only one!” The song barrels on regardless, driven by sheer force of personality rather than structure, and somehow emerges intact at the other end. A punked-up “RumpleStiltskin” follows, introduced as a song Otway got from his daughter when she was two. Deadly helpfully adds that she’s now 52, which gets a huge laugh. The song rattles along at speed, all jagged edges and gleeful nonsense. Before “Josephine”, Otway invites the crowd to tell him where to put the capo. They shout. He obeys. He explains that when he plays with his band later at the Coldstore, the capo goes in the right place. When he’s on his own, it goes wherever. The song sounds oddly beautiful despite the randomness, carried by Otway’s unshakeable confidence that it will all work out somehow.
“Cheryl’s – Goin’ Home” becomes the emotional and comedic peak of the set. Otway pauses for a merch plug, proudly announcing that he has actually sold a Jon Otway fan fan. Including Deadly in the song, he explains, isn’t easy because Deadly is talentless. Deadly responds by producing a toy keytar with two keys marked and immediately starts playing alternate notes with the instrument behind his head. Otway begs him not to spoil it. Deadly spoils it instantly. Otway stops the song completely and asks the room, entirely seriously, what you do when your wife goes away. The crowd roars back “WANK”, followed by spontaneous train noises echoing around Rock City. Everyone waits for the final note while Deadly messes about with “Last Christmas” on the keytar, utterly destroying the moment and making it unforgettable.
The crowd will not let Otway leave without an encore, and their cries are rewarded with “Headbutts”. Otway launches into it with giddy enthusiasm, smashing his head into the microphone at random but frequent stages throughout the song, sometimes on purpose, sometimes seemingly by accident. By the end, he’s barely aiming, nudging it like a child discovering gravity, smiling constantly, unstoppable. It’s ridiculous, joyful, and completely Otway.
This is why Jon Otway endures. Not because he ever quite fitted, but because he never stopped. His live shows are messy, funny, heartfelt, and gloriously human, driven by an infectious grin and a frantic pace that refuses to slow down. Rock City didn’t just watch an opening act that night; they witnessed a man who turned survival into an art form, and chaos into something approaching magic. For that alone, it makes the ticket price a bargin.
Rock City now felt like a room holding its breath. As the crew quickly tidy the chaos away, there’s that particular hum as expectant fans pace to the bar, merch and loo, the expectancy that only happens when generations overlap, when people who bought these records on release are standing next to people who inherited them, when battered tour shirts and Christmas jumpers collide, and when the word “nostalgia” feels entirely inadequate. Sweet weren’t arriving to remind anyone of what they used to be. They were here to show, loudly and unapologetically, why these songs never stopped mattering in the first place.
Sweet’s story has always been one of misjudgement by outsiders. Formed in London in 1968, they were initially packaged as a pop group, steered by the hit-making machinery of Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman, and dismissed by critics as disposable glam fluff. What those critics missed – and what Sweet themselves were quietly building behind the scenes, was muscle. By the mid-70s, Andy Scott and Steve Priest were writing, amplifying, and hardening the sound, pulling the band away from pure bubblegum and towards something heavier, darker and more defiant. That tension between perfect pop hooks and hard rock weight has always been Sweet’s defining strength, and Rock City is exactly the kind of room that lets that duality breathe.
They hit the stage and go straight for the throat with “Action”, released in July 1975 as a standalone single during the band’s most self-determined period. There’s no easing in, no polite warm-up. The riff snaps out, Andy Scott’s guitar sharp and commanding, the band instantly locked together. Live, “Action” feels less like a song and more like a declaration, this is Sweet taking control of their own narrative after breaking free from the Chinn-Chapman hit factory. Manzi’s vocal cuts cleanly through the mix, the harmonies tight, the crowd already singing back like muscle memory kicking in. Without pause, the momentum carries straight into “Hellraiser”, first released in September 1973 and later appearing on The Sweet in 1975. Written by Chinn and Chapman, it always sat at the crossroads of Sweet’s evolution, and live it leans hard into the danger. The guitars snarl, the rhythm section punches, and the chorus lands like a clenched fist. Any lingering idea that Sweet were ever a “safe” band evaporates in seconds.
That edge sharpens further as they roll into “Burn on the Flame”, pulled from Strung Up, and this is where the night takes its first wonderfully human turn. Andy Scott steps forward, then stops, squinting into the lights, joking that he can’t see and doesn’t want to play the wrong notes. He announces he’s going back to the hotel. The crowd boos loudly, affectionately, refusing to let him off the hook. Stage crew move fast, microphones shift, overhead lights are adjusted that are blowing him out, and when the song finally crashes into life it sounds even heavier for the delay. Scott digs in, proving that at 76 he still carries the fire that forged these songs in the first place. That weight rolls seamlessly into “Circus”, originally released as a B-side to “Action” in 1975 and later appearing on Full Circle. The song’s theatrical swing suits Sweet perfectly, the band clearly enjoying stretching out a little, letting the groove breathe. It’s glam without glitter, drama without excess, and Rock City eats it up.
From there, the mood shifts naturally into “The Six Teens”, taken from Desolation Boulevard and released in 1974. This is one of those songs that’s grown older alongside its audience, and live it carries a quiet punch. Manzi reins things in, letting the story land, the band supporting him with restraint rather than bombast. You can feel the room lean in, a collective understanding passing between stage and crowd. That reflective moment dissolves into the smoother, more assured glide of “LA”, released in January 1978 from Off The Record, Sweet’s final UK number one. The sound here changes colour, warmer, broader, more polished, but never loses its backbone. Live, “LA” doesn’t feel soft; it feels confident, a band comfortable in their skin after years of fighting to be taken seriously.
“Windy City” follows, also from Off The Record and released as a single in October 1977, and the band stretch out into its instrumental middle section. The keyboards wash across the room, the rhythm section locks into a hypnotic pulse, and Scott lets his guitar speak in long, expressive lines. This is Sweet reminding everyone that they were always more musically adventurous than their image suggested. The snap back into urgency comes with “Set Me Free”, released in July 1974 and included on Sweet Fanny Adams. One of their earliest singles, it still sounds feral live, fast and furious, almost proto-punk in its attitude. There’s no polish here, just momentum and noise, and it keeps the room on edge.
At this point Andy Scott announces he’s taking a break, and Rock City immediately knows what’s coming. While he steps offstage, the band dives headfirst into the songs that first cracked Sweet into the mainstream. “Coco”, released in October 1971 and later included on Funny How Sweet Co-Co Can Be, bursts out bright and unapologetic, the crowd instantly singing along. It rolls straight into “Funny Funny”, released a month later in November 1971, the harmonies bouncing effortlessly around the room. Then comes “Poppa Joe”, Sweet’s debut single from September 1971, and suddenly Rock City feels like it’s been rewound five decades. There’s no irony here, no distancing. These songs are played with affection and pride, because without them, none of what followed would have been possible.
Andy Scott’s return is met with a roar, and Manzi wastes no time whipping the crowd into a call-and-response frenzy. Chants of “We want Sweet” ricochet around the venue before “Teenage Rampage” explodes into life. Released in January 1974 as a standalone single, it’s one of Sweet’s great defiant statements, and live it feels unstoppable. The band hit it hard, Manzi pushes that high-pitched “now” at the end, and the place goes off. There’s barely time to catch a breath before “Wig Wam Bam”, released in September 1972, barrels in, its chugging rhythm turning the floor into a bouncing mass of bodies. That slides effortlessly into “Little Willy”, released in June 1972 and Sweet’s first UK top-five hit. The song is pure pop perfection, and Rock City sings every word with unashamed joy, decades melting away in the process.
The energy dips, just slightly, as the band tease the intro to “Love Is Like Oxygen”. Originally released in January 1978 from Level Headed, it remains one of Sweet’s most ambitious pieces, and live they let it unfold properly. A kick drum tease, then guitar, drawing the crowd in inch by inch before the main riff lands. The instrumental break is a highlight of the night, guitar harmonies soaring, the rhythm section locked tight beneath them. Manzi holds the final note to huge cheers as the keyboards swell and carry it home. The chants return, louder than ever.
Manzi takes a moment to thank the crowd for supporting Sweet, name-checking Jon Otway for his gloriously chaotic opening set and paying tribute to Andy Scott, calling him a legend at 76. It doesn’t feel scripted. It feels earned. A keyboard intro signals “Fox on the Run”, released in March 1975 and later included on Desolation Boulevard, and Rock City erupts. Hands clap, voices rise, and the song sounds as massive as it ever has, the harmonies pristine, the groove irresistible. A teasing drum finish stretches the anticipation before the final hit slams down, and Manzi thanks Nottingham as the cheers roll on. But the crowd isn’t finished. “We want Sweet” comes back again, louder, stamping and clapping shaking the floor.
“Blockbuster”, released in February 1973 and featured on Strung Up, turns the room into a choir. Fans are even lighter in loafers and the phones are out, as the entire crowd sings as one, every chant bouncing off the walls. The band tease the rhythm, pull it back, then crash in again, milking every second. There’s only one way this can end. “Ballroom Blitz”, released in September 1973 from Desolation Boulevard, detonates into life with Manzi declaring Rock City ready. The call and response is deafening. “It’s, it’s…” he shouts. “A Ballroom Blitz!” comes roaring back. Lee Small prowls the front of the stage, throwing out dirty bass licks that ripple through the room, seismic thumps rolling underfoot. During the guitar break, Manzi holds the microphone above his head, soaking it all in, before the band slam into the final notes. The cheers are wild, the kind that come from people who know exactly how much this music means to them.
As Sweet bow, salute the crowd and pose for a final picture, the bass still seems to vibrate in the air. Taped music plays, the band walk off, and Rock City keeps clapping, cheering, unwilling to let the moment end. This wasn’t a greatest-hits run-through or a victory lap. It was a living, breathing reminder that Sweet’s songs endure because they were always bigger than fashion, tougher than critics, and sharper than anyone ever gave them credit for. On this December night in Nottingham, Sweet didn’t look back, they stood tall, proved that these songs have endured because they were always bigger than trends, louder than labels, and tougher than anyone ever gave them credit for, and for everyone in tonight, are still, very much alive.
