Singing through Grief – Collective Memory through Music

“Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart / And you’ll never walk alone.” Such words, sung by thousands in harmony at Anfield, the home of Liverpool Football Club, and beyond, are more than just lyrics—they are a cultural memory, a form of resistance and a promise of togetherness. 

Football, especially concerning fans, can be described as tribal—rooted in geography, loyalty and collective passion. Alongside this, it is also inherently musical. From the cacophony of chants of a favorite player on the stands to the quiet suspense before a penalty, football culture is a sonic landscape. These sounds create a unified identity, binding thousands of strangers into one voice. In this way, football matches resemble a form of ritual: they are repetitive, emotionally charged and have deep symbols. When tragedy strikes, it is often such rituals that remain. Nowhere can these concepts be felt more than in the context of the Hillsborough disaster of 1989, a tragedy that undoubtedly changed football but also transformed grief into music and then identity. In the wake of loss, one of the world’s greatest football anthems—You’ll Never Walk Alone—became something altogether more potent. 

As a Liverpool fan, Hillsborough, or the Hillsborough Disaster of Apr. 15, 1989, is the darkest day in our club’s history. Forget the infamous Steven Gerrard ‘slip’ of 2014, or the 2022 Champions League Final, Hillsborough overshadows even the most notorious incidents. Four years after the Heysel Stadium disaster, where 39 fans died in a collapse following clashes between Liverpool and Juventus supporters, another tragedy struck. On Apr. 15, 1989, 97 people died in a crowd crush at Hillsborough Stadium during an FA Cup semi-final match between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest—94 on the day, with the death toll later rising to 97 by 2021 due to related complications. These people died because of a lack of stadium control. 97 died because of police errors, not because of the fans. Yet what followed the disaster was not just heartbreak, but injustice. In the days following, fans and victims were smeared by the press. The infamous The Sun article—‘the Scum’ or ‘he S*n’ if you’re from Merseyside—‘The Truth’ accused the dead of looting, drunkenness and even urinating on police officers. Such allegations were not just lies, but acts of systemic violence, designed to discredit the grieving and shift the blame away from the authorities, who let down the very people they were meant to protect. 

Despite such a tragedy, Liverpool didn’t stay silent. Instead, it sang. 

You’ll Never Walk Alone didn’t originate from Hillsborough—it’s actually from a show tune from the 1945 musical Carousel by Rodgers and Hammerstein. It was later covered by the Liverpool band Gerry and the Pacemakers in the 1960s. Before Hillsborough, it had already been adopted by Liverpool fans, yet in the wake of such a profound loss, it became something else—an anthem not just of loyalty, but of mourning. Of protest, and of survival. 

Singing You’ll Never Walk Alone for Liverpool fans became much more than tradition. It became an act of resistance. In a society that refused to believe they were wronged, Liverpool fans created a sound that couldn’t be ignored. Singing became a way to grieve together, but also a refusal to forget the injustices imposed upon them. There’s a sort of rhythm to football, both on and off the pitch. Whether through home and away fixtures, the same 36 matches each year, or the Saturday rituals. The same pubs, scarves, the same voices raised in unison. Football is, in many ways, religious. Stadiums become cathedrals. Chants become prayers. And at Anfield, the home of Liverpool, You’ll Never Walk Alone transformed into something more than a hymn—it became sacred. 

It’s undeniable that when you bring 50,000 voices together, it’s euphoric, but what gives the song its power isn’t just its melody, but the words. 

“When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high…” 

In the aftermath of Hillsborough, these lyrics no longer were a metaphor, but an instruction and reminder to walk on, even through grief. The storm was the disrespect, the interviews, even by famous figures like Wayne Rooney, blaming Liverpool fans for the deaths of their own. Likewise, “though your dreams be tossed and blown” such words speak to what was lost—the lives, the futures, the hopes and dreams of the 97. “Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart” is a rousing call for togetherness and thousands promise that “you’ll never walk alone.” 

There’s a phrase often heard in Liverpool: Scouse, not English. To outsiders, it perhaps sounds exaggerated, or even cheeky. Yet it's more than regional pride—it’s defiance, a declaration of cultural independence. As someone who isn’t Scouse, I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand what it truly means to be Scouse—that is with a capital S. The phrase captures it better than anything else could: Scouse, not English. It reflects a deep-rooted identity in politics, pride and pain.

Liverpool, as a city and as an identity, has long stood apart from the rest of England. With its Irish heritage and history as a working-class port city, alongside its long-term loyalty to the Labour party, the city has often been distant from Westminster, especially under Margaret Thatcher. During the 1980s, under Thatcher’s Conservative government, Liverpool was treated not only with neglect but also hostility. Deindustrialisation ravaged the city, reducing jobs and futures. Later disclosed cabinet documents showed government ministers even considered a policy of “managed decline”—effectively letting the city fall apart rather than supporting it. Any sort of neglect Liverpool suffered was not accidental, but a deliberate attempt to reduce Merseyside’s livelihood. 

In the face of this decline, rising unemployment, social unrest and the 1981 Toxteth riots, Thatcher’s response only increased policing and blame. Liverpool, already proud and politically stimulated, became vilified in the press as angry, dangerous and self-pitying. To be Scouse was to be othered—culturally, economically and politically. 

Thus, when Hillsborough occurred, and the government chose to ignore the victims, it wasn’t a shock but a confirmation. When Thatcher visited, she sided with the South Yorkshire police. When The Sun printed lies, the state stayed silent. Normally, in tragedy, people would be allowed to mourn their dead, yet Scousers were forced to defend their character instead. As such, Hillsborough is more than a tragedy for Liverpool. Instead, it's a culmination of years of being ignored and misunderstood. It’s why the song You’ll Never Walk Alone cannot be reduced to just a song of grief. It’s an anthem, a refusal to be erased, a declaration that Scousers will not be ignored. 

It took 23 years for an official apology. In 2012, the Hillsborough Independent Panel released a report confirming what had always been known. The police were to blame, the victims were innocent. David Cameron, the Prime Minister, issued a formal apology in Parliament. Yet apologies mean nothing and Liverpool does not forget, with the S*n being banned in all of Merseyside. This does not take back the suffering inflicted, and justice is never simple. Trials have dragged on with little to no resolution, and no senior police officers have been convicted. Despite this lack of accountability, Liverpool has stayed strong, and You’ll Never Walk Alone has continued to be sung. Every year on the anniversary, Anfield falls silent—and then erupts in one voice. The wails of this legendary song sound louder than ever, a reminder that justice does not end with headlines, but only when the truth is known. When the dead are honored as people and not just as statistics. 

Music has a strange sort of power; it can outlive the moments it was originally made for. You’ll Never Walk Alone has transcended Liverpool. Celtic fans sing it in Scotland, as well as Dortmund fans in Germany. It’s been sung in times of crisis—after terrorist attacks, during the pandemic and other acts of remembrance. But it will forever belong to Hillsborough first. It is sacred in the way a national anthem can become sacred, or a funeral hymn. To put it simply, it is more than music. It is a memory that cannot be erased, a resistance that cannot be silenced or reduced. You’ll Never Walk Alone began as a ballad of hope and then a cry for justice. 

It reminds us that grief can be public, that mourning can be political, and that justice can be demanded outside the courts. Yet above all, it shows that when people come together, they can never truly be alone. 

The importance of remembrance is clear. For the victims of the Heysel and the Hillsborough stadium disasters, we should not and will not forget. 

Victims of the Heysel Stadium Disaster, Mar. 29 1985

Victims of the Hillsborough Stadium Disaster, Apr. 15 1989

https://www.theguardian.com/football/ng-interactive/2024/apr/15/hillsborough-disaster-the-97-people-whose-lives-were-cut-short

Photo source: Mark Lowen on Wikimedia