Shaun Ryder Misses Mani’s Last Goodbye—A Manchester Music Scene Shaken

Mia Reynolds, 1/7/2026A poignant glimpse into Manchester’s music family, where grief, laughter, and legacy entwine as legends bid farewell to Stone Roses’ Mani—reminding us how music and memory carry us, even when old friends are missing from the pews.

The thing is, grief rarely keeps a tidy schedule. Not everyone got to say goodbye in person. Against the bracing winds that swirl down Deansgate, a parallel story unfolded: Shaun Ryder, the Happy Mondays frontman whose words could mix defiance with a wink, lay feverish and frustrated. Pneumonia, of all things, kept him sidelined, even as his city gathered by candlelight and memory. Odd, isn’t it? You’d expect the wild nights or the unfiltered lyrics to slow a man, but sometimes it’s just a bug picked up on tour—Black Grape, December, 2024—that throws up the biggest roadblock.

Ryder’s account, told from a sickbed scattered with painkillers and shadowed by the dull blue glow of winter evenings, lands somewhere between gallows humor and stubborn devotion. “Just rotting in bed on my own,” he’d said—half a joke, really, as Manchester men tend to do when things get too bleak. Still, the tour was ‘old school,’ Ryder insisted, and the job had to get done, even if it meant missing one of the city’s most poignant farewells.

If you strolled through Manchester those first days of the year, you might’ve caught the scent of rain or the distant thump of a beloved song sent up like a prayer for Mani. The funeral itself drew more than just close friends; it became something of a gathering of tribes. Ian Brown and John Squire in the role of pallbearers felt about right—almost as if the story demanded it. With them were Alan Wren, Liam Gallagher lending his signature swagger, Primal Scream’s Bobby Gillespie. Each one another line in the long, scribbled biography of British music.

And the details—that’s where the sadness and celebration meet. Mani’s coffin, veiled in the artwork from the Stone Roses’ first album, rolled through the nave as “I Wanna Be Adored” played overhead. Impossible not to feel a lump in the throat at that, the lyrics filling every arch. There were faces among the pews familiar to anyone who’s ever been caught up in a late-night singalong: Paul Weller, David Beckham, Gary Neville. Somewhere near the back, probably, someone cracked wise about a 50-foot golden statue for Mani, a flash of irreverence slicing through ceremony as only Manchester could manage.

Speeches at funerals sometimes stumble over themselves—too rehearsed, too sentimental. Not this time. Bobby Gillespie put it plainly, “Mani’s not dead, he’s just gone. He will always live forever in my soul and mind.” Simple, sure, but it cut through the grey. “No one was too important to escape his laser eye… making laughter out of any situation was our great value.” Neighborly, truthful, just enough edge to balance the tears.

Now, there’s a strange comfort in knowing the band—Happy Mondays—marches on. This year, they hit the road marking thirty-five years since Pills ‘N’ Thrills And Bellyaches, that album which seems glued to the city’s DNA by now. Life in 2025 feels increasingly scattered, with uncertainty built into the headlines, yet some things stubbornly endure: music, friendship, that need to gather and remember.

Ryder’s absence at the funeral didn’t eclipse his tribute: a brief message, heartbreak tucked between the lines. “RIP Mani—my heartfelt condolences to his twin boys and all of his family.” Not the length of words, but the heft of a shared history. After all, eulogies aren’t measured in syllables.

Maybe the greatest story beneath all this isn’t about the loss or the music alone, but about the way Manchester endures. Loss arrives uninvited, sometimes in the middle of a tour or on a festival guest list or during what should have been a routine winter. But as always, this city finds a melody worth clinging to—a bass riff looping through memories, a rough joke breaking the silence.

As 2025 settles in, there’s a sense that those old friends—Ryder, Brown, Gillespie—carry the torch not just out of duty, but from a place of battered affection. The show continues, imperfect and raw, just as it always has. In the quiet after the last song, with laughter and loss braided together, the spirit of Mani lingers—part memory, part anthem, impossible to silence.

Even among the timeworn stones of Manchester Cathedral, it’s the echo of a bassline—lost and lingering—that seems to fill the gaps words can’t quite reach. Manchester, that tireless city humming with the soundtracks of a thousand youth, recently found itself mourning Gary “Mani” Mounfield. Those who’d grown up tilting at the sky to the Stone Roses suddenly felt that unmistakable ache as another familiar note slipped away.The thing is, grief rarely keeps a tidy schedule. Not everyone got to say goodbye in person. Against the bracing winds that swirl down Deansgate, a parallel story unfolded: Shaun Ryder, the Happy Mondays frontman whose words could mix defiance with a wink, lay feverish and frustrated. Pneumonia, of all things, kept him sidelined, even as his city gathered by candlelight and memory. Odd, isn’t it? You’d expect the wild nights or the unfiltered lyrics to slow a man, but sometimes it’s just a bug picked up on tour—Black Grape, December, 2024—that throws up the biggest roadblock.Ryder’s account, told from a sickbed scattered with painkillers and shadowed by the dull blue glow of winter evenings, lands somewhere between gallows humor and stubborn devotion. “Just rotting in bed on my own,” he’d said—half a joke, really, as Manchester men tend to do when things get too bleak. Still, the tour was ‘old school,’ Ryder insisted, and the job had to get done, even if it meant missing one of the city’s most poignant farewells.If you strolled through Manchester those first days of the year, you might’ve caught the scent of rain or the distant thump of a beloved song sent up like a prayer for Mani. The funeral itself drew more than just close friends; it became something of a gathering of tribes. Ian Brown and John Squire in the role of pallbearers felt about right—almost as if the story demanded it. With them were Alan Wren, Liam Gallagher lending his signature swagger, Primal Scream’s Bobby Gillespie. Each one another line in the long, scribbled biography of British music.And the details—that’s where the sadness and celebration meet. Mani’s coffin, veiled in the artwork from the Stone Roses’ first album, rolled through the nave as “I Wanna Be Adored” played overhead. Impossible not to feel a lump in the throat at that, the lyrics filling every arch. There were faces among the pews familiar to anyone who’s ever been caught up in a late-night singalong: Paul Weller, David Beckham, Gary Neville. Somewhere near the back, probably, someone cracked wise about a 50-foot golden statue for Mani, a flash of irreverence slicing through ceremony as only Manchester could manage.Speeches at funerals sometimes stumble over themselves—too rehearsed, too sentimental. Not this time. Bobby Gillespie put it plainly, “Mani’s not dead, he’s just gone. He will always live forever in my soul and mind.” Simple, sure, but it cut through the grey. “No one was too important to escape his laser eye… making laughter out of any situation was our great value.” Neighborly, truthful, just enough edge to balance the tears.Now, there’s a strange comfort in knowing the band—Happy Mondays—marches on. This year, they hit the road marking thirty-five years since Pills ‘N’ Thrills And Bellyaches, that album which seems glued to the city’s DNA by now. Life in 2025 feels increasingly scattered, with uncertainty built into the headlines, yet some things stubbornly endure: music, friendship, that need to gather and remember.Ryder’s absence at the funeral didn’t eclipse his tribute: a brief message, heartbreak tucked between the lines. “RIP Mani—my heartfelt condolences to his twin boys and all of his family.” Not the length of words, but the heft of a shared history. After all, eulogies aren’t measured in syllables.Maybe the greatest story beneath all this isn’t about the loss or the music alone, but about the way Manchester endures. Loss arrives uninvited, sometimes in the middle of a tour or on a festival guest list or during what should have been a routine winter. But as always, this city finds a melody worth clinging to—a bass riff looping through memories, a rough joke breaking the silence.As 2025 settles in, there’s a sense that those old friends—Ryder, Brown, Gillespie—carry the torch not just out of duty, but from a place of battered affection. The show continues, imperfect and raw, just as it always has. In the quiet after the last song, with laughter and loss braided together, the spirit of Mani lingers—part memory, part anthem, impossible to silence.