I did say a while back that 2025 is my year of punk rock and so it’s proved. So I couldn’t pass up seeing one of the first and best punk acts of all time, or at least 75% of the founding members.
It may be 50 years after they first formed, but I finally got a chance to catch The Sex Pistols live with frontman Frank Carter. Turns out it was a punk rock delight!
Here’s my review over at Radio New Zealand:
The Sex Pistols at Auckland Town Hall prove punk is not dead
Anarchy!!
So on Saturday evening I somehow did an Old Man Thing (TM) and put my back out, or nearly out, to the point where I was kind of afraid to move lest my spine shatter into a million delicate pieces.
And top of my mind was “Oh crap, I hope I can still go to the Amyl and the Sniffers concert Sunday night!”
Fortunately for your hero, a bucket of painkillers and super-hot bath helped and I hobbled into the sold-out Powerstation for the Aussie punk act’s final sold-out New Zealand show. And after 90 minutes or so of amped-up feminist punk anthems and cautiously staying well away from the heaving mosh pit, lo and behold, I felt healed. (OK, I was still a little sore. But you get the picture.)
The Melbourne band has been kicking around for 7-8 years now but really broken through with their excellent 2024 album Cartoon Darkness, and the very NSFW single “Jerkin” which slams toxic masculinity in a grandly profane fashion.
Watching frontwoman Amy Carter and the band stomp, bounce and shimmy through their propulsive catalog, I kept thinking, “This band should be a household name.” Maybe they will be soon – they’ve got the talent, and the fuck-the-system ethos that 2025 is desperately calling out for. Amy is a whirlwind of motion on stage, bouncing, sticking her tongue out and gobbing a bit in the time-honoured punk fashion, tossing her blond hair around and climbing up the speakers. She has true star power and it’s easy to imagine she’s just at the start of where she’ll go. “How you f—in’ doing?” she asked several times, and we were doing fine.
Punk still somehow has the bad rap of being angry and violent, but it felt inclusive, particularly important coming the same weekend when a bunch of thug so-called “Christians” violently disrupted Auckland Pride events.
For “Me and the Girls,” Amy welcomed on stage a random chorus of audience members of all shapes and sizes and it felt bloody celebratory. Amyl and the Sniffers’ tense anthem about violence about women, “Knifey,” struck a chord with never-ending misogyny still everywhere you look, while poppy nuggets like “Chewing Gum” and “U Should Not Be Doing That” marry plentiful hooks with a bit of throbbing anarchy.
I wrote more about punk (and Amyl) not too long ago and if anything, the vibe has gotten even more spirit of 1977 in my headspace lately. What a joy, then, to see Amy take the stage with swagger and anger, but also, kindness. Her first words to the audience were if you see someone fall in the mosh pit, pick them up, and don’t touch anyone who doesn’t want to be touched. Don’t be a jerk. It shouldn’t be that hard.
It was a show full of joyful rage against the cartoon darkness we’re all living through. I thought a bit about one of my favourite writers, Tom Robbins, who died just last week at age 92, and his mantra: “My personal motto has always been: Joy in spite of everything.”
There was joy at Amy and the Sniffers Sunday night, in spite of everything. Even my back.
A couple other great reviews by people who are not me:
Chris Schulz at Boiler Room
Emma Gleason at the NZ Herald
People have been saying rock and roll is dead or dying for decades, but in a whirlwind blast through Auckland this week, guitar hero Jack White was determined to prove them all wrong.
After my friend Chris said they blew the roof off the intimate Powerstation Monday night, White and band put on their final show of the year at a filled-to-capacity Auckland Town Hall Tuesday night, pounding through a frenzy of his solo work and hits with the White Stripes.
Somehow, it’s been 25 years this year since that first White Stripes album came out and helped launch the brief garage rock revival of the early 2000s, but White still looks lanky and youthful even as he’s, shockingly, about to hit 50 next year.
His career has gone through all the configurations – scrappy indie stardom with drummer (and ex-wife) Meg White as the Stripes, top ten records and breaking up the band at the height of success, followed by a series of solo albums that range from rowdy to wildly eccentric, all culminating in this year’s stellar No Name.
No Name has reminded fans that while White isn’t quite the omnipresent music hitmaker he was a few years back, he’s still one of the best guitar slingers out there and keeping that rock and roll flame burning high.
Auckland Town Hall’s crowd knew they were in for something special when White kicked off not with one of his standards, but a roaring, simmering take on the Stooges’ underground touchstone “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” For nearly two hours, White and band spun out a stew of garage rock nuggets that dipped into punk, blues and country with ease.
Genial but focused, White stood tall at the town hall, ripping through the music with a few friendly smiles, a little polite banter and a whole lot of windmilling guitar solos (I lost track on how many different guitars he rotated through, but it was at least half a dozen).
He played several jaunty White Stripes tunes like “My Doorbell” and “Hotel Yorba,” but the band also stretched out for ecstatic takes on bluesy gems like “The Hardest Button to Button” and “Catch Hell Blues.” There were also deep cuts from his other bands The Dead Weather and The Raconteurs, including a fierce take on the latter’s “Steady As She Goes” just before the encore.
“The new stuff” doesn’t always go down well at big shows but ripping and propulsive No Name songs like “That’s How I’m Feeling” and “What’s The Rumpus?” were strong highlights, and the terrific insistent quirky preacher’s rant “Archbishop Harold Holmes” particularly stood out from the encore.
Jack White, at 49, knows who he is and plays with the confidence that decades surviving in the music biz brings. Famously, he’s in love with the retro aesthetic and been known to ban or discourage cellphones from his shows. Fortunately the town hall crowd seemed on the same page and a little less clogged up with the endless glowing screens than some gigs are these days. Sure, you could try to capture the whole thing for your TikTok or you could just put the phone away and bask in the ringing chords.
Of course, the show had to end with perhaps the White Stripes’ biggest hit, the clap-and-stomp along anthem “Seven Nation Army.” To see the jam-packed Auckland Town Hall floor filled with hundreds of fans waving and singing along, the crowd rippling to the music, it felt like rock and roll was not only not about to die, but it might just take over the pop culture world again at any second.
White’s probably played “Seven Nation Army” thousands of times by now, but the wide grin on his face as the crowd pulsed along made you see this was a man who loves his job. “Merry Christmas,” he shouted during the standing ovation at the end – and to all a good rockin’ night.
The 90s are having a moment.
There’s something about this year in particular, where every time I turn around I see headlines blaring the 30th anniversary of things I lived through and considered cultural touchstones in my life – the death of Kurt Cobain, OJ Simpson’s freeway chase, the release of Pulp Fiction, the debut of Friends, whathaveyou. Watching elements of your life turn into nostalgia is always strange.
And then there’s the Dandy Warhols, Portland, Oregon’s psych-pop cult sensations, who hit Auckland on their 30th anniversary tour this week. How is a band I still kind of think of as new-ish turning thirty, for crying out loud? But the Dandys still put on a spirited and rollicking old-school rock show at Auckland’s Powerstation, even if the band is – cough cough – like yours truly entering their 50s now.
The Warhols never quite ascended to the level of superstars like Pearl Jam or Green Day, but in some ways that’s their strength – they’ve felt free to play around in the murky area between hummable pop nuggets and sprawling psych-jams.
Live or on record, the Dandys have never quite settled on one signature sound – the impossibly catchy stuff of singles like “Bohemian Like You” and “We Used To Be Friends,” the yearning drone of druggy anthems like “You Were The Last High” and “Godless” or the clattering, Velvet Underground-adjacent jam of “I Love You.” Most of their hits got a workout in Auckland as well as some twisty new gems from their latest album Rockmaker. (The bouncy single “Summer Of Hate” really captures that caught-in-purgatory 2024 vibe well.)
Courtney Taylor-Taylor still has the easy charm of the pin-up frontman, while terrific drummer Brent DeBoer, guitarist Peter Holmström and keyboardist / bass / singer Zia McCabe all clicked with an effortless precision. The show perhaps lacked that spark of unpredictability and closing without an encore sapped the buzz a bit, but at their best the Dandys cooked up a warm singalong atmosphere with the honed skill that comes with having done this for (gasp) 30 years now.
The Dandys are always married in the popular imagination with another 1990s band, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, whom they costarred with as the subjects of one of the great music documentaries, 2003’s DIG! The documentary follows the steady rise of the Dandys and the clattering collapse of the Massacre and its unhinged frontman Anton Newcombe, and it’s a classic time capsule of 1990s alternative rock struggles.
Both bands started together and hung out a lot, but while the Dandys courted major labels and huge European crowds, Newcombe’s violent eruptions left that band a heap of “what ifs” in music history.
Rewatching DIG! again, the music scene has changed so much in the more than 20 years since that documentary came out that it’s like watching an alternative universe – no TikTok, no viral fans, just the hard graft of touring, magazine profiles and both bands constantly worrying about “selling out” (a concept which, as Chuck Klosterman has pointed out, has pretty much ceased to exist these days when everyone’s selling themselves in bite-size video pieces).
Long after DIG! the Warhols are still steadily driving along and while true music superstardom seems reserved for the Taylors and Beyonces of today, their big NZ/Aus tour is sold out and the Powerstation was jammed with appreciative fans Monday night. The Brian Jonestown Massacre are also still going, to this day, with their own fanbase, but carnage still follows them – they recently ended a New Zealand/Australian tour with a massive brawl on stage – the kind of thing that might have seemed edgy in your 20s but seems kinda sad when the band members are all well into middle age, frankly.
With DIG! it kind of felt like the story was that Anton Newcombe was some underappreciated genius and the Warhols too eager to court fame with their chill professionalism. (A failing of DIG! is we’re constantly told about Anton’s genius without really ever seeing evidence of it.) As I watch it now, Anton’s clear mental illness seems starker and his rambling music honestly lacks the snap and charm of the Dandys’ best tunes. Did the Dandys “sell out” and the Massacre get betrayed by corporate frauds? Or did the Dandys knuckle down and do the hard work and the Massacre succumb to its own pretensions?
At one point in DIG!, Newcombe rants, “I’m here to destroy this fucked up system. I will do it. That’s why I got the job. I said let it be me; I said use my hands. I will use our strength. Let’s fuckin’ burn it to the ground!”
Meanwhile, the Dandys opened up their Auckland show with the still stinging little satire “Not If You Were The Last Junkie On Earth,” where Courtney croons, “I never thought you’d be a junkie because heroin is so passe.” And so we all sang along about heroin. The Dandys gently mock the culture that spawned them, and somehow, they’ve survived. Does anyone care about selling out anymore?
Also in that same song: “You never thought you’d get addicted, just be cooler in an obvious way.”
Part of us is all still about chasing cool, whether it’s the 1990s or the 2020s. Hey hey hey.
Sometimes I like to listen to depressing songs. Sometimes I like to listen to happy songs.
I’ve got my Cure, my Joy Division, my Depeche Mode and Leonard Cohen. And they’re great when I’m in the mood for it.
But other times I just want a happy sound – and there’s few more unabashedly happy bands out there in the world than Japan’s Shonen Knife. An all-girl band who marry Ramones thrash-pop with Beach Boys-style wistful harmonies all twisted together with a healthy dose of colourful Osaka charm, they’re a delight to see live.
Heartbreak? Depression? Shonen Knife don’t do that. They sing about their favourite foods, cute animals, and the silly happy things that, in the end, kind of make this life worth living. And they do it while kicking out some thrashing power chords and rocking with incredible style, dressed in often matching colour-coordinated outfits that seem retro and futuristic at the same time.
For a band that’s been going for more than 40 years, since the women were all teenagers, Shonen Knife still make a tremendous racket, headbanging hair and all. I’ve been a fan since they broke through a bit in the US in the alternative music-ruled 1990s with celebrity fans like Nirvana and Sonic Youth. They’ve carried on for a pile of albums, rarely altering their sunny, hook-filled sonic approach, and they’re all the better for that.
Sisters Naoko and Atsuko Yamano have been the core of the band for most of its long run, with excellent drummer Risa Kawano on sticks these days. I’m old and creaky and so I’m kind of out of it with the hip pop music the youth listen to these days, but the appeal of a good cheery song is universal.
The packed gig at Auckland’s underground Whammy Bar was probably the first time I’d been in a crowded basement club environment since the pre-pandemic era, and it was kind of invigorating to feel that sweaty, borderline uncomfortable shared experience, for a little while.
Song titles like “Sweet Candy Power,” “Afternoon Tea” and “Banana Chips” give you the overall vibe of a Shonen Knife show. I can’t think of too many rock gigs I’ve been to where the audience is led in an energetic singalong chant of “Candy! Candy!”
In a fun interview over at my day job RNZ, Naoko said, “I like to make people happy through music and if our audience or listeners get happy through our music, it’s my happiness too.”
Perhaps it’s just my mood in the very stressful vibe the 2020s have proven to have, but sharing a little happiness no longer seems as corny as it might have once to me.
In a world as askew as this there’s something blissful about celebrating the little things, whether it’s a funny-looking jellyfish, wasabi being hot or one Shonen Knife song whose chorus is simply, “it’s a nice day!”
And you know what, sometimes it is.
I missed seeing the Ramones live. And the Clash, and the Sex Pistols. So I sure as heck wasn’t going to miss The Damned, one of punk’s pioneering acts and just about the last great band still going strong from their peers.
Many of my best friends were punks and goths when I was a young wide-eyed lad, but I always felt sort of punk-adjacent. Paradoxically, the older I’ve gotten the more appreciation I have for the unrestrained energy and fury of a good punk tune, and on a rainy Friday night at Auckland’s Powerstation there was nowhere better to be than hanging out with the Damned. Far from some vapid nostalgia effort, it turned out to be the best gig I’ve been to in quite a few years now.
The Damned sprouted from the UK in the class of 1976. They were the first British punk band to release a single, the unforgettable ‘New Rose,’ to release a studio album and to tour the US. But while their debut Damned Damned Damned was hardcore, over the years they branched out into goth rock and psychedelia, perhaps offending narrow-minded punk purists but impressing those of us who like a band that continues to evolve.
Even as they’re pushing their late sixties now, they still make a dynamic picture on stage. Lead singer Dave Vanian and guitar guru Captain Sensible are the only two of the original line-up left, but they’re more than enough to summon up the band’s spirit with a solid group beside them. Vanian was instantly the most stylish man in the room with a bespoke suit, fedora and sunglasses, strutting and crooning in his distinctive baritone, while the good Captain, mugging and smiling and wearing his trademark striped shirt, feels like a Beano comics character come to life.
Punk could be angry and violent, but there’s none of that bad energy in the Damned 2023. For nearly two hours, they pounded their way through classic punk and impressive new songs and reminded you why they’ve endured long after the Clash and Ramones are gone. Sure, there was a churning mosh pit (with a lot of bruised-looking guys my age who you know are hurting today) and even a stage-dive attempt, but it was a place of good vibes.
A big chunk of the set was devoted to the Damned’s brand new album Darkadelic, a rather bold move when you know that most of the crowd was really there for the older hits. But having listened to Darkadelic a lot the past week or two, it’s actually pretty terrific. It doesn’t try to be some hip rock release from 2023, but more of a summing up of all that the band has built. The Damned gather up their considerable powers honed over the decades into catchy numbers like ‘The Invisible Man,’ the grand harmonies of ‘Bad Weather Girl,’ the comic menace of ‘Beware of the Clown’ or the swoony dark ‘Wake The Dead.’ The new songs all navigate the tricky business of slotting right in among the Damned’s better known work, and they were terrific live.
Of course, though, the classic punk bashers are what the crowd is there for, and the final section of the show was an unrelenting blast from ‘Born To Kill’ to ‘Love Song’ straight through two encores and concluding with an utterly fiery stomp through ‘New Rose,’ the one that started it all. It’s still a lightning bolt of a song, and the crowd bobbed up and down like pogo sticks, old geezers like me and young girls born decades after the ‘New Rose’ single was released, and by gosh it was fun.
Punk is momentum, and catharsis, and lord knows we could always use a little more of that in these stressful times. Pound past the angst and the ugliness and uncertainty and just be there. Even if I can’t hear so good the next day, it’s worth it.
The Damned have followed their own quirky path for nearly five decades now, from rapid-fire punk to brooding goth to stadium rock anthems. They aren’t the young men in the ‘New Rose’ video almost 50 years ago, but somehow they’re still nothing but themselves.
What could be more punk rock than that?
(Here’s ‘New Rose’ performed more than 40 years apart, in Wellington and in the 1970s video. They still got it!)
Look, we’re all a bit nostalgic for the 1990s these days, right? It’s a cliche, but it’s almost relaxing to recall an era where pop culture’s greatest fear was “selling out” rather than worrying about climate apocalypse, social media overload, misinformation and creeping fascism. It was hardly perfect but we like to imagine it was.
Not every ’90s band is the same. I can’t remember the last time I listened to Pearl Jam, but I put on a Pavement song every week or two at the very least. For a band whose full albums precisely spanned the 1990s, from 1992’s Slanted And Enchanted to 1999’s Terror Twilight, they feel far less bound to their era than others. Pavement returned to New Zealand for a fantastic show at the Civic Theatre last night and reminded us all why they still matter, decades after their final album.
I saw Pavement play their first reunion tour in 2010 (reviewed on Version 1.0 of my website) and it was marvellous fun, but 13 years on, even though they’ve never put out any new music, they felt even more contemporary somehow – all the angst and weirdness of the last few years just seem to make them more relevant than ever.
The band were a bit looser and more playful than in 2010, stretching out nicely in extended spacey jams on songs like “Type Slowly” that built on the hazy vibe, with frontman Stephen Malkmus’ spiky guitar solos evoking the late great Tom Verlaine of Television and his own relaxed and sprawling solo albums.
Pavement have often been misleadingly described as “slacker rock,” including probably by myself at some point, but it occurred to me that lazy label obscures the amiable craftwork behind their songs – earworm nuggets like “Gold Soundz,” “Summer Babe” or the surprising viral hit B-side “Harness Your Hopes” have a tight power pop catchiness at their core.
Malkmus’ lyrics have always had a charmingly casual quality to them, sounding like a super-relaxed rapper. But no matter how surreal the songs may get with their asides about Geddy Lee’s voice or how sexy Stone Temple Pilots are, Malkmus always managed to sound disarmingly sincere. “I’m an island of such great complexity,” he sings in one of my top 10 Pavement songs, “Shady Lane,” and the key is he never makes that seem like hard work.
They had the blissful upbeat tunes like “Cut Your Hair” and “Stereo,” but there’s always been a gently melancholy core to the band, too, a quality which helps their music endure in numbers like “Here” or “Stop Breathing.” I’ve listened to my favourite of their albums, 1997’s Brighten The Corners, about a zillion times and still manage to come away with new things from each song.
Last week I had the pleasure of “writing up” – as they say in the biz – an interview Pavement’s Bob Nastanovich gave to Radio New Zealand’s Music 101 before their show, talking about how NZ’s classic Flying Nun bands like The Clean and Chris Knox influenced their sound. Maybe that’s why they sounded faintly alien in the flannel 1990s. They hailed from Stockton, California, and were an ordinary-looking group of dudes, but at their core Pavement were inspired more by bands like Can and The Fall than KISS and Led Zeppelin. They have always been a rather unique brew of American casual and avant-garde surrealism.
Everyone seemed to have a different favourite song last night, as Pavement dipped between their “hits” and more obscure numbers. That’s kind of the beauty of their work – it’s whatever you want it to be.
I’m sorry if I ever called them slacker rock – they’re their own beast, really. Maybe it’s the dream of the 1990s, hazy and irresistible like that summer babe in the distance, unforgettable and you’ve always just missed her.
There’s a great book about ground-breaking ’80s punk bands called Our Band Could Be Your Life. For me, Midnight Oil is one of those bands.
As the Aussie enviro-rockers shook up a nearly full Spark Arena last night on the Auckland stop of their farewell tour, I thought a lot about how the band has been part of the soundtrack of my life for more than 30 years, and helped shape how I think about the world.
I wrote a review and appreciation of one of my favourite bands as they zipped through town – go read the full piece right now over at Radio New Zealand!
When your musical tastes lean toward the retro, as mine tend to, you find yourself attending a lot of farewell tours. You don’t always know it will be the last/only time to see a band. But as someone who loves an awful lot of bands that were at their peak in the ‘70s or ‘80s, you never know what fate and time will bring.
Performers in their 70s or even older aren’t always at their best, but sometimes they’re amazing. You sometimes find well-honed machines who may not be quite as fast on their guitar solos as they once were, but who make up for that with the breezy skill that only comes from playing the same song thousands of times over.
The announcement that 75-year-old Elton John is coming back to New Zealand for his long, long Covid-postponed farewell tour in early 2023 and that Billy Joel, 73, is coming here for the first time in decades reminded me that many of my favourite older acts who make it all the way down to Aotearoa probably aren’t going to be coming back again. I’m undecided on seeing Elton just yet, but I’m already down for Midnight Oil’s farewell tour in September, pandemic willing.
I managed to see Brian Wilson deliver a surprisingly affecting tribute to the Beach Boys and Pet Sounds a few years back. He was seated for most of the show and did sometimes seem a bit off in the clouds, but still delivered some of those dazzling harmonies on “Sloop John B” and “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” beautifully. Younger band members handled the high notes, and yeah, it was an audience of gray hairs, but as reunions go, it was more sweet than bittersweet. I’m glad I went.
And then there was getting to see The Monkees twice before the deaths of Peter Tork in 2019 and Michael Nesmith last year. Head cheerleader Mickey Dolenz led the charge at both shows, making up for some of the slack energy of the clearly fading Tork or Nesmith, and while it was most definitely a valedictory lap, there was a charge of energy at hearing the old frothy pop songs by the original band one last time. Because now, all but one of those Monkees are gone.
Or take an 80-year-old Mavis Staples, who was fierce, fiery and loud in a delightful show a couple years back that showed one of the great gospel singers could still bring the house down. Or Nick Lowe, who might’ve been white-haired and hardly the young power pop star of the 1970s, but who put on a great show.
On the other hand, I’m glad I decided not to fork out for one of the octogenarian B.B. King’s final shows here in Auckland back in 2011, which sounded like it was a pretty grim affair with the 85-year-old King basically propped up on stage far beyond the point where he could really live up to his legend. A show where the artist is barely able to perform is kind of grotesque.
Sometimes you don’t know how lucky you are. Seeing a dazzling Prince a mere two months before he died will always be one of my live music highlights, and The Rolling Stones were everything they could have been in a packed stadium in 2014 before Charlie Watts passed away. I’ve crammed in three Bob Dylan shows in the 15+ years I’ve been in New Zealand and am grateful for every note I got to hear.
Because sometimes, you miss out. I’ve still got enormous regrets over missing the late Leonard Cohen on what turned out to be his final show anywhere in the world in Auckland in 2013, and having a trip overseas conflict with what probably is Sir Paul McCartney’s final trip down under back in 2017 still stings.
I do still listen to some music by people under 40, don’t get me wrong. But when it comes to a chance to see a legend, I’ll probably take a punt on seeing them while I can. Every tour has an ending date, and you never quite know when the final curtain call might come, do you?
The first time I heard Crowded House was on a fuzzy mix tape from a high school girlfriend.
She put most of their entire second album Temple Of Low Men onto this tape, and it felt strange yet familiar. Neil Finn’s voice was gorgeous yet kind of tense, and songs like “Into Temptation” and “I Feel Possessed” felt like a secret code to me in the age of MTV and Bon Jovi. Finn’s lyrics marry the universality of the Beatles with a wry Kiwi humility and eye for detail. The music felt wiser, older somehow than the typical ‘80s pop hits I usually listened to. It felt built to last.
Ever since I think of rainy afternoons, fumbling teenage heartbreak and the impossible fragility of things when I hear Crowded House.
I barely knew what New Zealand was, and Neil Finn and company were my first introduction to the place I’d one day end up living.
I moved to New Zealand 15 years ago, the place that hissing cassette spoke of. I’ve now seen Neil Finn a live a few times solo and with other acts, even run across him in the crowd at other shows (it’s a small country, you know), but I never did see Crowded House live.
Last night, I entered an arena and stood 25 feet or so in front of Neil Finn and the reunited House in one of the only countries in the world such crowded stadium shows can still happen these days. Like the best of Crowded House’s music, it was broad and intimate at the same time.
Neil and the band, now joined by his amazing sons Liam and Elroy, put on a soaring, cathartic show, doubled in strangeness by seeming so normal with much of the rest of the world still howling in the heart of the storm of COVID-19. All around me, people kept looking at the nearly full arena, almost 12,000 people unmasked and very grateful to be here.
The lovely little earworms have turned into national anthems – “Better Be Home Soon,” “Don’t Dream It’s Over,” “Something So Strong” – and it was kind of beautiful to have them become stadium sing-alongs. Sometimes the crowd sing-alongs are pretty cringe stuff, but it’s been a weird year or so and it felt good to be part of a crowd. We’re all in this Crowded House together.
I’ve been here 15 years ago now and so I know what Neil’s singing about in “Four Seasons In One Day” when he talks about “the sun shines in the black clouds hanging over the Domain,” because I’ve walked the grassy fields of the Domain probably a hundred times now.
And there were the deeper cuts that I’ve listened to over and over through the years – a mesmerizing “Private Universe,” the sultry “Whispers And Moans,” a right fierce bang-up on “Knocked Out,” or a marvelous cover of David Bowie’s “Heroes” dedicated to all the front-line workers here and everywhere who’ve made New Zealand a safe island in a world of worries.
That lovestruck teenager playing that cassette tape over and over couldn’t have imagined how things would end up. The teenage girlfriend and I didn’t last long, but the music echoed forever.
Neil Finn was singing last night to a very crowded house, yet he was also singing to me, alone in my room a million years ago, listening to gorgeous lonesome pop music and never imagining where he’d end up in this life.
It’s literally been decades since I got that mysterious mix tape that introduced me to Crowded House, and I’ve got no idea what happened to the quirky and cool girl who gave it to me.
If I could, I’d tell her how I saw Neil Finn sing those songs last night, about the wonderful Kiwi woman I ended up marrying, how strange it was that I ended up in the place that all that haunting music came from, that I’m doing OK and that I hope she’s OK too.
Nik Dirga 