The Smashing Pumpkins and Weezer review: Keening angst and power pop rock in ferocious set at Co-op Arena

“We are the Weezers,” Rivers Cuomo misidentifies his band with a wink.

“But we’re so happy to be here with the Smashing Pumpkins. It’s a dream come true.”

Before him, several thousand fans sprawled across the floor and among the risers of Manchester’s newest arena whoop in unison, clearly delighted to share this congregation.

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On paper, there’s a face-value sensibility to this package that pairs them with Billy Corgan’s Illinois heavyweights. Both groups emerged from the same early-nineties haze; both enjoyed their greatest commercial fortunes as the shadow of grunge receded.

But past such alignments, the two bands are more musical chalk and cheese than bread and butter than you might think, respectively geared towards art-rock and power-pop. It’s seeing the goth girl with the black eyeliner and the maths nerd with the coke-bottle spectacles bundled on stage together at prom; at Co-op Live, the double-take invites itself.

With their disparate collision of differing Gen X nostalgia, they make for curiously alternative bedfellows. Theoretically the undercard for this double-bill, Weezer effectively offer a truncated festival-style set that nevertheless covers most major bases; the summer-stomp of Beverly Hills , the Beach Boys-esque chimes of Island in the Sun and radio-staple favourite Say It Ain’t So are all served up with chunky riffs aplenty.

In this brisk seventy-five minute turn, Cuomo still finds room for glorious post-rock curio Only in Dreams too, but it is the new wave surge of Buddy Holly that unites the masses and underscores his credentials as heir to The Cars maestro Ric Ocasek.

By comparison, the Smashing Pumpkins are afforded the space to stretch themselves, pushing beyond the two-hour mark with a performance keenly tooled to underscore their frontman’s recent assertion that they will play what they want, fan requests be damned.

The results are career-spanning, mixed with fascinating diversions; an industrial-groove romp through U2’s Zoo Station proves an inspired curveball. Half-dressed like a Franciscan priest four days into a Whitby bender, Corgan remains beguilingly enigmatic, caught between keening angst and dad-dance delivery; with the twinkling symphonies of Today , Tonight, Tonight and Disarm , he sprinkles thrilling dopamine rushes in throughout.

When new guitarist Kiki Wong drops the hammer on the crunchy bonbast of Bullet with Butterfly Wings , the moshpit threatens to consume the venue. “They need the hits!” their frontman cries before shiny MTV staple 1979 brings the house down.

Despite some suggestions, so it seems does he.