THE GIG

Music photography in New Zealand

Music sounds better when you’re making pictures. Concentrating on light, timing, composition muffles the wandering thoughts that would have polluted the music had one not been holding a camera.

If you shoot enough gigs you know much of what’s visually coming in a band’s set. What draws you in are the moments outside the structure. I’ve included some of these below, along with others that fit more on the conventional spectrum. I don’t consider all of what’s presented to be my best work as a music photographer in New Zealand. That said, the pictures are on this page as they represent a spirit of the gig, from my memory of it, or they represent something that’s taken a while to form in my thoughts.

I hope you find something for you.

Th’Goodside

Galatos, Auckland

Why I chose this picture:

When writing for drama, the writer typically drops the audience into the scene as late as possible, and then removes them as soon as possible. The padding either side can go hang, apparently. Or something like that. Nevertheless, I expect you’re in a rush so we’ll crack on.

The artist in the picture is Harry Le Cheminant, lead vocalist of Ōrewa band Th’Goodside. He’ll see about a hundred faces when he opens his eyes. A hundred ain’t bad going. It means the front third of Galatos is a bit of a squeeze. Given a choice between enviable streaming figures and a live gig in which people have to duck and weave to get through, I’d take the ducking and weaving. 

They’ve made an effort these people; the ones Harry’s about to look at. It’s Friday night in mid-December in Auckland. You’ve haemorrhaged money on tat and you’re about to haemorrhage more at your summer festival of choice. It would have been so easy to have stayed in. People do, you know. But not these people. The demands of the season have no influence here. These folk are here because of the band.

I get the sense they’ve seen them before. I recognise a few from an earlier stop on the band’s tour to mark the release of their EP Close to Home. That earlier stop was in Mount Maunganui, 201kms from where I’m standing, stage left. One might think they are friends or family, but friends and family act differently at gigs. They tend to stand to the side or at the back where they don’t distract the one they’re connected to on stage. These ones I recognise are near the front. They know the words to the songs and they know the songs they want played. The track Feel gets shouted more than others. I’m glad of this, and I’ll tell you why. New Zealand hasn’t had an artist or band produce an opening title to a Bond film. It’s high time we got the call and I’m going to make the call that Feel should be in the running (the 45-55 seconds stretch on the track is the clincher for me, I’m sure Barbara Broccoli will agree, get her on the blower).

Feel gets played. I think it was in the encore. The people get their way and the band, consisting of Harry, plus Oliver Wallace-Pram (Lead Guitar), Evan Fairgray (Bass), Grant Heyns (Rhythm Guitar), and Visko Bryers (Drums), say goodnight. 

They’ll be back, I’m sure, as shall I to Galatos. It shall require planning though. And patience. To get the shot you’ve just looked at required both. In case you’re a reader who is into bullet points, we’ll get into some. And in case you would like to get into music photography, these are just a few.

Things that had to happen to get the shot that had nothing to do with light, timing, composition

  • I needed to finish my day job in Tauranga early so that I could get to Auckland in time because when you hit the Bombays the journey turns to custard and you don’t move (which is a problem  as I have very little patience and I dislike sitting down)

  • That meant starting work early, two days in a row to accumulate time, which meant going to sleep the night before earlier, which meant everything happening earlier

  • Booking an airbnb place to stay and said place being not too far from the venue

  • Parking near the venue, which wasn’t possible, which meant parking 2.5kms away (the night in question was peak office Christmas party booze up and K Rd et al was chocka).

  • Finding something to eat with two cameras attached to me

  • Doing the gig (which was great) and getting back to the car on a dark street at midnight without drawing attention to the two cameras I was holding

  • Sleeping little cos I was wired

  • Driving nearly 200km home, making the roundtrip around 400km

  • Sitting down again in front of a computer (which is the part of photography I’m least into)

  • Creating two file sizes of the versions I like. Version one is for printing. Version two for website.

  • Cleaning cameras, lenses, charging batteries, unpacking.

  • Drinking multiple cups of coffee, tea

  • Playing more than normal with my dog as he hadn’t seen me in like, hours, and was like ‘where you been, play with me.’

None of the above is out of the ordinary. There are music photographers who do way more than this all the time. And there are bands for whom the above would represent a quiet day on tour. Some don’t even make a dime. Some make a loss. They all make memories. Is that enough? Not always. Memories don’t pay bills. But when the music is good, and it was damn good that night at Galatos, you don’t linger on the admin and the banality of going from A to B. Instead, the musical firebrand in you shouts ‘do it again… do it!’

And so you do.

Drax Project

Waihi Beach Hotel.

Why I chose this picture:

I have a soft spot for Waihi Beach Hotel. It’s an unconventional live music venue in that the site has a restaurant (Italian-themed), cocktail lounge with fancy armchairs, a normal (yet very nice) bar, motel rooms that are pitched as ‘privately contained units’, and a space out the back for gigs. It’s also a wee bit out of the way on the New Zealand live music circuit, yet not so much it should deter any band from going there.

Waihi Beach is always summer to me, even in winter. Think baches (inherited weatherboard and cashed-up new), family campgrounds, mini putt, gorgeous beach, an epic Mexican street food spot called The Secret Garden, and the guaranteed smell of fish and chips come dusk. You probably wouldn’t travel there for a gig from Tauranga unless you were really into the band, which leaves the inland Waihi (population 5k ish) and Katikati (also around a population of 5k) the closest towns to provide patrons after Waihi Beach locals and holidaymakers.

And yet, Waihi Beach Hotel (circa 1967) has long been a tour stop for many an impressive group. For example, The Feelers, Daffodils, Soaked Oats, and Marlin’s Dreaming. On December 29, 2023, the list was extended with another stellar band: Drax Project. This is a band that has opened for Lorde, Christina Aguilera, Ed Sheeran, and Camila Cabello. I first heard them like many did, through Woke Up Late, a 2017 track I would play as I stepped off the train at Paddington to head into the hustle and bustle. Fate, or more likely an algorithm, got me hooked on it for a wee while through the video, the original one filmed in Wellington, replete with reminders of home: a suburban bakery, hotchpotched homes on hills, berms wider than UK roads, a graffitied artillery battery, and op shop fashion. In the glum darkness of an English winter I retreated to its scenes, mollycoddling homesickness instead of putting a noose around its pain in the arse throat, until spring arrived in the old country, bringing daylight, daffodils, and new tunes. Which is where I left my interest in Drax Project.

Until Waihi Beach.

Now I know I took pictures at the gig as I have them on a screen. But I also know I spent most of the time at the gig thinking ‘these guys are incredible’. And they are that, incredible. What a band. What musicians. Coming off the stage in the picture above is bassist Sam Thomson. I have one more shot to take and it is this one of Ben, wiping his brow. He’s given the audience his all, along with his friends (lead vocalist and saxophonist Shaan Singh, drummer Matt Beachen and guitarist Ben O’Leary, who went to school at nearby Katikati College). They’ve done the encore and the lights have come up. The bulk of the crowd has left, heading out through the cocktail lounge into the stillness of the seaside town night. Some linger, staring at the stage as the show comedown kicks in.

As for me, I’m coming down too and kicking myself I didn’t go to other dates on the tour.

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Nest Fest

Black Barn Vineyards, Hawke’s Bay.

Why I chose this picture:

Nectarine overdose. Parrotdog on ice. And a flashback. The above den of joy, house music, bongos, bunting, art installations with tentacles, and rampant hugging, delivered them all. On the Nest Fest rundown it was the Market Stage, for it was where people sold vintage threads, Ilford 400, and well-meaning folk made a pitch for you to sign up for something meaningful. 

It started so quietly that day: January 9, 2021. Enclosed by drooping trees, and with dust at one’s feet and vineyards a cork pop away, stepping into this scene was like stepping into a sleepy Mediterranean village. Early risers, down in Hawke’s Bay from the big smoke, poked their heads in and made their way elsewhere. This was not the place for the vibes. Not yet.

Not yet passed. And it was on. This was the place to be. From mid-afternoon to dusk, this dance enclave was Cafe Del Mar in a vineyard. Black Barn Vineyard. The dust at one’s feet could no longer be seen, for one did not look down. Just at each other. Smiling. Embracing. Dancing. Drinking. Eating.

The drinking was Parrotdog beer (gratis if an artist… or a photographer). The food: Nectarines (also gratis, which led to the overdose and a grumpy digestion). The dancing: By people who knew how to dance on speakers, benches, hay bales, and whilst piggybacking friends with balance.

Which brings me to the flashback. It didn’t happen with the DJ in this picture, but the vista was little different. People. Lots of them. All having a good time. Me too. Standing up there in the DJ booth, supping on a Parrotdog and snapping away, this was being young and carefree again, and caught up in the moment.

Which is probably why I didn’t notice it at first. 

Something had changed. 

The DJ was no longer there.

It was just me. 

In the DJ booth.

And a track that had outstayed its welcome. 

Oh.

Here cometh the flashback.

It’s the summer of 2000. And I’m in a DJ booth. Only I’m not working as a photographer. I’m the DJ. The actual DJ. And I am actually in the Mediterranean. On the island of Crete. In a crazy party town called Malia. 

Some context. Back then, and today, my two greatest obsessions were 1) Liverpool Football Club and 2) House music. I carry these obsessions quietly. I don’t need to shout about them. But they are my obsessions. And in the summer of 2000, obsession number two led me to being a DJ in Malia. 

My dear friend Adam, who knew everyone of note on the strip, and seemingly was respected by everyone of note on the strip, got me the gig. 

One night, a bar owner asked him, ‘Do you know any DJs?’

‘Dave’s a DJ’, said Adam, pointing to me.

‘You can DJ?’ 

‘Yeah, I can,’ says I, bending the truth.

‘Come tomorrow. You play.’

I got asked to do a trial. I passed. I got the gig.

For the life of me I can’t remember the bar’s name. I can picture every part of it though and also where it was located on Dimokratias Street (a.k.a the strip). Apparently, so says Google Maps, there’s a bar there now called Zoo, so, let’s go with Zoo for convenience, not fact’s, sake.

Zoo was huge, outdoor, and had a bucking bronco that cost buttons to have a ride on, but cost you your dinner if you’d had too much ale. Everywhere you looked in this joint you saw bamboo, drinks with parasols, and staff in flowery shirts. Put it on the water and you’d be on a cruise ship.

Now if you’ve been to a party island, you’ll know there’s a hierarchy to a night on the strip. You never go to the best place first because the best people aren’t there yet. And you don’t go to the up-and-coming spot as that’s an hour or so from peaking. You find a small (ish) launch pad, then scale up.

Zoo was not the first stop on a night out, and neither was it the last. It was in between, or the place you’d go if you’d had a large one the night before and couldn’t handle the Factory (the names are coming back to me now) but wanted more than the Red Lion (great spot in the day/early evening, cracking menu and gave us ‘workers’ a discount).

My job was to get people to two drinks. In they’d come, typically as a group of 4-6 lads, peacocking across the tiles, all sunburnt and moisturised, guys looking like Popeye in their tight River Island t-shirts, looking at the girls looking at them, waiting for a wink, a smile, a something that promises something. 

First, the fishbowl, a Dirty Dancing-sized watermelon chopped in half and filled to the brim with cheap juice and cheap liquor. Popeyes would crowd at the bar, getting all matey with the Uni-break bartender, cajoling them to let loose on the spirits as it was someone’s birthday/first time abroad/first time anywhere. And then they’d get to work on the bowl. Party straws clamped between chapped lips, these professional guzzlers would drain the watermelon dry in seconds, fist pump, and declare to no-one listening that they should ‘***** have it.’

As the bravado passed, a big call had to be made by the lead alpha at the trough.

‘Want another?’

If people were dancing, and more people were joining the dancefloor, then they’d always stay. It’s just a thing that happens. You don’t leave somewhere when it’s getting going or you’re too drunk to walk.

Instead, you order a second bowl and stare at the dancefloor, unaware the bartender was following house rules and lowering the potency.

More cheap juice + reduced spirit = more profit. Bar owner happy. Boys watching the dancing happy. Everyone’s a winner. I’d got them to the second drink. Job done.

The music won.

Only it had to stop. At once.

I was being lasered.

Not lasered like split in half, science fiction lasered. This was a red laser pen, pointed at me by Spotter John. Spotter John wasn’t his real name, but it’s how I knew him. Old Spotter (lovely man) was an ex-pat Brit who had retired to Malia’s old town and earned a few drachma (we’re in a pre-Euros age) by standing at the door looking for the police, ready to point his laser at me any time between midnight and 4am. 

If I got lasered, the music had to stop. I didn’t believe him at first. I mean, this is one of the most hedonistic party strips on the planet. Why should the music have to stop at midnight?

Noise pollution. At least, that was the reason I was given. 

Whether the music had stopped or was playing full volume, it didn’t matter. Along the police would come. The bar owner would go out and shake hands, exchange money and the music could resume. 

Happy days.

‘You got Angels, mate?’

‘You what?’

‘Angels… you got Angels?’

Every night, irrespective of what I was playing, a pissed young holidaymaker would want to sing along to Robbie Williams.

Bless.

No. I didn’t have Angels.

Flashback ends. I’m back in Hawke’s Bay. The DJ returns from the portaloo and all is well.

I finish the Parrotdog, raise my camera for a final shot and step away.

So long DJ booth. 

Thank you for the trip down memory lane.

FESHH

The Underground, Auckland.

People

@The Underground, Auckland.

Why I chose these pictures:

The Underground is not under the ground in a Beehive bunker type of way (though it is below street level), and neither it is underground in the abandoned industrial early 90s rave culture, only those in the know know, type of way. For one, it is located in the world famous (in Auckland) St Kevins Arcade and is just a few steps away from a mixologist, barista, barber, chef, pizzeria and some epic vintage threads. And two, since it opened in 2021 it has been an all ages venue, providing young people who appreciate original live music by their peers a place to go at night.

Before we move on, I’m going to introduce some sadness. In late May 2023, the last gig was held at The Underground, though it continues as a fantastic space for artists to hire. I would like to salute the tremendous commitment of those who launched The Underground and kept it running as a live music venue. You provided many a young band the chance to perform and develop their craft. Thank you. I shall pick up below my memory of the picture I took, albeit by referring to The Underground in the past tense.

Aesthetically, The Underground was rad, largely in part to it being an old, gigantic vault. The door appeared original in that you would need dynamite to prise it open, and there was no natural light. To the left was a burgundy leather sofa from a cigar era, the stage was not a stage but just a power-cord lined section at the back of the room, and the ceiling was flanked by the structural foundations of the arcade. It was solid, felt air-raid safe, and was square-box shaped which meant noise bounced around with no nook and cranny to escape except for the bathroom that was next to the ‘stage’ and was reached by sometimes having to step onto the stage. Spending a penny came at the cost of feeling awkward.

When a band had more than three people, things got cramped, hence why in the picture above you’ll see the guitarist for FESHH playing statue as his bandmates prepare for their set as part of The Others Way Festival. Out of shot are three other band members. When all six - Shay, Lilith, Vinnie, Sonnie, Max and Beau - are all good to go, and the audience edges real close, everyone is in everyone’s business. And yet it worked. Just as it worked for the band Melanie (that’s their drum kit in frame) that came before FESHH, and for Late to Chelsea, Buzz, and The CMC, the acts that followed on The Others Way bill.

There are others it worked for. Zoom in and you may well recognise a few of the names on the wall. I do. The Butlers. Marmalade Skies. Lime Cordiale. Coast Arcade. Groups that came to The Underground and made a contribution to live music in Auckland, just as every patron did by walking through that big old vaulted door.

R.I.P. The Underground.

——————————————

Oceanspace

Totara St, Mount Maunganui.

Why I chose this picture:

At first, the music made me choose this picture. Forty-five minutes before I took this shot I had not heard Oceanspace’s sound, pitched as psychedelic rock infused with electronic dance music. Any band that embraces electronic dance is all right by me. And if they do it exceptionally, as Oceanspace did the night I saw them, then they get to be in this memory lane of gigs.

The night is early January 2023 and Oceanspace have come to town (Mount Maunganui) from their town (Gisborne) as the support act for No Cigar (Auckland), a band that sold out the venue (Totara St) as they tend to do on tour. There are six of them on stage, and they have this groove which is like taking a bit of Drax Project’s jazz funk, and blending with Of Monsters and Men/Fleetwood Mac/Mumford/a bit of Florence. It’s clear they are way too fine-tuned to be a support act. For one, vocalists Nathan Seaver and Emma Moore both have epic voices of depth and charismatic tone, two, their lyrics could easily fly as a decent poem, and three, it’s like they’ve taken the ride of The Chain and applied it to their own sound.

What this means is that people want more of them. Time is up though and they have to leave the stage. I don’t know if the guy in the frame reaching out his hand is a fan, a friend, or just someone who came along for No Cigar and got a wee bit taken away by the support act and felt like high fiving Emma Moore.

As I said, it was the music that originally made me choose this shot. Looking at it now, it reminds me of support acts and the gap between the final song and when the house music comes on. For Oceanspace, as with many other bands and artists, there is a peak of the final song and then the immediate transition of having to hurriedly pack up and exit the stage without a moment to absorb the experience.

And for the audience, it’s a shift from witnessing (often exceptional) creativity by artists to witnessing how good they are at unplugging cords and working their way through a crowd whilst holding a guitar/whatever stuff they came on to stage with. It is this jolt, and the occasional awkwardness, that adds to the texture of live music in a smaller venue. It means you can go up to a band member and give them a beer or an unconventional high-five, and it means you can say something pleasant as you pass them on the merch stand (stop and buy merch, people… stop and buy merch).

So thank you, Oceanspace, for coming to town. Please do come again.

_________________________

Proteins of Magic

Naked Eye stage @ Splore

Why I chose this picture:

I don’t look at this picture and think about the picture. It’s nothing special on my part. Anyone who can look at a subject and calculate exposure quickly could have made it. No, what I would hope is that whoever looks at the picture happened to be close by when I took it so they can think again of Kelly Sherrod, a.k.a, Proteins of Magic.

‘OMG… she was INCREDIBLE!’ was what someone said to me when I mentioned I had seen Proteins of Magic at Splore.

The response was fitting, as OMG… she was incredible. For me, Proteins of Magic made my festival. I can’t tell you why. I just know that under that canopy of the Naked Eye stage, all packed in as the rain came down on Tāpapakanga Regional Park, I knew it was the performance I would start any Splore conversation about.

I should have written notes in a journal that night. But the rain did more than come down, it seemed to all come down at once and some poor folks’ tents washed away (not sure why this stopped the note taking, other than I thought my tent would float away too and I should be all survival first, note taking later). Alas, there are no notes. Just this picture of a multi-format artist with a voice that, to me, could be at home in punk, electronica, early 90s grunge, Clash protest, even pop, country, and blues. And yes, that’s all a little gushing, but it’s what I think when I look at that picture.

One magnificent artist being magnificent.

________________________

Pork Crackle

Nest Fest, Hawke’s Bay

Why I chose this picture:

A festival using a warehouse is a boss move. Dance music wants to be in a warehouse. Clubs, the outdoors, the beach, event venues and main stages are all well and good, but a warehouse is where dance music (house, techno, electronic et al) gets to breathe. Loudly.

Enter the warehouse at Tomoana Showgrounds, Hawke’s Bay. The gig is Nest Fest and the warehouse at the back of the site is the place for house, doof-doof and damn-good DJs such as Pork Crackle.

That’s Crackle (real name Roxy Leppan) in the picture. The decks are out of frame to the right. They must be pre-drop, post-drop or under supervision for Roxy to be standing where she is. No-one is nervous about this. Everything is under control. Leppan is an artist who evidently knows what performance is. This I appreciate for as much as I adore dance music (again, house, techno, et al) photographing DJs can be dull as ****. Ultimately, no matter what you do, it is just a human standing behind a desk. Occasionally an arm is raised and some (like Erica Kayes) have a prop (Kayes’ prop is a light wand), but there is not much to go on. Hell, some don’t even wear headphones during their set.

So to see Pork Crackle (who does wear headphones and again, is one one very good DJ) mix it up and introduce performance made me choose this picture. To me, this artist took the core of what they do (play music) and said, ‘that’s not enough… I want to give people more’.

And she did. And people loved it.

Top work, Pork Crackle. You helped make my Nest Fest… along with the warehouse.

__________________________

Grown Downz

Tauranga

Why I chose this picture:

Punk should be compulsory in schools. Through Punk music, young people will learn more about living than any lesson can give them. The evidence is in this picture. The people dancing at the front are in their teens, and there are more out of frame. Only one is holding a phone and it’s not raised. If you raise your phone while dancing to Punk, then you’ve missed the point of Punk. Raising your phone and being like all the others is a symbol of conformity. It’s about caring for others’ opinions. Your vanity. Your needing to be liked. Punk doesn’t care about being liked. You like it or you don’t.

The young people in the scene above like it, hence why they are dancing to the Punk and Roll of two-piece band Grown Downz. That’s Joel with the guitar. Behind him on the drums is Ellie, his sister. They got me respecting Punk when I was first heard them. I say respecting as I don’t actually like Punk. But I respect it. Massively. And if I had the choice between a Punk night and any other genre (except vintage Dutch Trance) I’d go Punk every time purely because people are present.

So, schools, please take a beat and think about what it would be like to have a room of young people not holding their phone, instead just dancing, living in the moment. Be worth ditching Maths/Science/other compulsory subject for, eh?

(yes, it very much would).

P.S I have further live music photography in New Zealand to keep you distracted from whatever you want to be distracted away from.

Gin Wigmore

Totara St, Mount Maunganui

Why I chose this picture:

This is a quick read. I chose this picture above because Gin Wigmore is like no-one I had seen perform before. Aside from all the things you would expect of an established artist (great voice, great songs, great delivery, great band), Gin Wigmore stepped onto the stage and filled a room with joy. It was quite something to see and feel. Top night.

Ringlets

Whammy Bar, Auckland

Why I chose this picture:

I wasn’t feeling it before Ringlets came on stage. Leith Towers (guy in frame kinda screaming at the out of frame László Reynolds) pulled me back into the night, along with Arabella Poulsen (bass), and Arlo Grey (drums). They pulled me back because they know exactly what they are doing, and who they are as musicians. I also was really into their sound (kinda punk to me, but with some edge of The Smiths and The Cure - apologies to the band if this is out of sync with your thing).

Ringlets owned the Whammy Bar stage, which meant I picked up, perked up and got into it. Go see Ringlets.

No Cigar

Totara St, Mount Maunganui

Why I chose this picture:

Willy Ferrier, rhythm guitarist and vocalist of Auckland band No Cigar, has 400 or so people looking his way. I know the number as No Cigar have sold out the venue (Totara Street, Mount Maunganui). The Sold Out sign has become the norm for No Cigar, where their popularity in New Zealand carries to Australia, where they have also done the hard yards, and to Paris, Amsterdam, Manchester and London, where they will return in October 2024 to perform tracks from their album, The Great Escape (one beautiful piece of vinyl, folks).

Preamble completed, we can move on to the picture, chosen not for any light, timing, composition reasons (for there is no merit from me with this), but for the reasons of how the artists of Willy Ferrier, Sam Benson (bass, keyboard), Josh Morrice (lead guitar), Ned Gow (drums) and James Mitchell (saxophone) got to be on that stage and so many other others playing to venues at capacity. Putting aside the principal determiner of people like their music, I look at that picture and wonder what it took to get to the moment. I have no clear idea. But I know it would have taken much. Waiting, for instance. You’re going to do a lot of waiting when you move from gig to gig accompanied by others. Waiting for people to wake up, turn up, pack up, learn your lyrics, like your tunes, like you, get your vibe and buy a ticket so you can pay your way and be an artist. The punter doesn’t see this, and neither should they. They just want to see the band, and hear the band, and if the camera swivelled you would see how much they’re into the band.

You go to a No Cigar gig and all you’ll see is people really into the band. Nothing unique about this. Nevertheless, the common bond of musical taste and identity always fascinates me, irrespective of the band on stage. In arenas and stadiums it’s communicated through mass collective chorus singing, high margin merch sales, exorbitant sound-check ‘VIP’ ticket packages, and (for some), an evening of screaming, whooping and crying. But in smaller venues, and I can only speak to the ones I know in New Zealand, I’m of the mind it’s a superior connection. You (and by you I mean people in the audience) get to banter with the artists, pat them on the back, shake their hands, pass them a beer, pinch the handwritten song list (peeps, please wait till after the show to do this), buy a t-shirt in person and not from a vendor, see beads of sweat, and tell the drummer you’re a big fan and they need to come back soon. And as a photographer, you get to take this picture. My left leg is touching the stage as a brace, and we’re in the band’s encore. Had this been an arena, there would have most likely been a human barrier (security) and physical (some form of ugly railing) between me and the stage, and I would never have got close to the encore because of the three songs and you’re out rule. Thus the picture above would never have been taken and I would not be writing these words.

Thankfully, I am.

The Darlings

Totara St, Mount Maunganui

Why I chose this picture:

That’s Spencer on the left, Zane on the right, and out of sight in the kitchen huddle are Jade, Amelie, and Felix. It’s a big moment for The Darlings. It’s December and they’re about to walk down a corridor to perform their debut EP having only played their first gig in March that year. First gig to EP release party in six months ain’t bad going. Some bands get to first gig but never to EP. The Darlings (lovely people, by the way) have made it though and in the audience at Totara Street are mates, parents, siblings, friends of friends, and folk who came to see the support acts and stayed.

Me. I’m clearly hovering at the kitchen door. This isn’t a picture for me to be proud of. There are others from that night that would be deemed superior. It’s on here because it shows the friendship and camaraderie that has taken the band to this point. You can’t fake that stuff on stage. Gigs can go south if you start being phoney. Your work may hold up to be decent, but come live show time cracks find a way.

For The Darlings, people got to see their friendship that night. It was a good gig. The EP release did actually feel like a party, as it should have done. Spencer, Zane, Jade, Amelie, and Felix did the hard work in the months before and people could see it. So, up-and-coming Darlings looking at this picture, go do the hard work. Embrace friendship. Huddle. Release an EP.

The Jordan Luck Band

Totara St, Mount Maunganui

Why I chose this picture:

I remember little about 1981. I was alive, but not alive long enough to be aware of my surroundings. Some stuff happened. Lady Diana Spencer married Prince Charles. Dynasty debuted on US television. Ronald Reagan was elected. Raiders of the Lost Ark came out at the pictures. And the first DeLorean DMC-12 rolled off the assembly line in Northern Ireland. Ahh, the DeLorean. How in years to come I would yearn to see one in the flesh so I could say those magical words.

‘You made a time machine… out of a…’

Down here in New Zealand we had our own things going on, such as our first ATM being installed, an election (Muldoon won again), and a nasty (yet kinda cunning) piece of unsportsmanship with a cricket ball being bowled along the ground. In the music universe, some planets collided and we had two seminal developments. One was the founding of Flying Nun Records, and two was vocalist Jordan Luck and guitarist Brian Jones forming the Dance Exponents. Had they not, and had they not then decided to learn their trade in Christchurch, the picture above would never have happened.

It’s on there because about a year after they formed, the Dance Exponents released Victoria, a track that became a top ten hit in New Zealand and quite rightly so. It is one hell of a song and continues to age well. I say age well as in the picture above, Jordan Luck is performing it over 40 years after he wrote the lyrics. A few in the audience may well have bought the 12-inch back in the day, or seen the video (go watch it, it will make you feel nostalgic for the era even if you weren’t alive then).

Most though in the crowd wouldn’t have been of age to buy the record back in the day, or even have been born. Take the woman stretching her arm, trying to touch Jordan Luck. I’m picking she’s younger than me so wouldn’t have been born when Victoria was written. And yet she is really into the song, and others that came before and follow. And she’s not alone for every time I’ve been to a Jordan Luck Band (it’s Jordan Luck playing his tracks with the support of some epic, top notch musicians) gig there are always people there doing the outstretched arm thing trying to touch an icon of New Zealand music. Now, this does not mean I have chosen the picture because I find this odd (it’s not odd). How I find it is energising. I am energised every time I go to a Jordan Luck Band gig because the people in the audience appreciate quality songwriting, quality musicians, and a quality show. The sold out signs prove it.

In their 2024 winter tour, for example, they played nine gigs. Six sold out and from the photos it looked pretty cosy in the others. People love Jordan Luck and his mates. They love Victoria. It’s one of the biggies in the set and the chorus is primed for a communal sing-a-long. I read once that Jordan Luck described it as a ‘very Christchurch song’. As I’m not from Christchurch, I’m not able to appreciate the connection. But I’m thankful there is a connection as evidently its impact endures.

MC Tali

Totara Street.

Why I chose this picture:

At its best, with coffee, no distractions, and no hand cramps, my shorthand speed could get to 120 words per minute (wpm). What that means, is that someone could talk at 120 words per minute and I could get down all of their words, give or take an umm or an argh. 

This was convenient as regular humans doing regular talk deliver 100-120 wpm on average, depending on regional dialects, environment, sense of urgency, introvert or extrovert, patient or impatient, level of inebriation and so on. 

What was inconvenient was when I came across a professional talker. Folk who deliver 180 words per minute in the workplace. I’m thinking commentators on the radio or tv who can’t hit the brakes when off air. These people left me in a shorthand deficit. They’d say 180 words and I’d get 120, hoping the absent 60 weren’t important (they always were).

These days, I’d have no such problem. Hit a button on a phone and every word of a professional talker would be accounted for. I could romanticize the days of scribbling words on a 8mm ruled pad in my messy shorthand. But I won’t. I hated shorthand. Park it for a day and you’d find it to be a stranger upon your return. Monday you’re fluent in French. Tuesday you return to English. Wednesday you’re left with nothing more than ‘je m'appelle David’.

In truth, I doubt I could even write my own name in shorthand now.

(update: I just tried.. I can’t).

Thankfully, I’m liberated from having to use shorthand, but not liberated from shorthand’s hangover.

Other than a mild shudder if I picture desk drawers rammed with notebooks, shorthand has left me with a compulsive calculation of someone’s words per minute delivery. 

Which brings me to the picture.

In frame is MC Tali, a vocalist at the top of the enunciation tree delivering 200 words per minute + on stage.

I use + as I have no idea what wpm speed MC Tali (Natalia Sheppard) is actually hitting. It’s not that I’m out of practice in calculating wpm, it’s that it's been years and years since I have been in a room with an MC of her standing.

Actually, I don’t believe I’ve ever been in a room with a drum and bass MC of her standing. For anyone unaware of Tali’s stature as a DnB MC, know only that Roni Size was an early champion of Tali’s work. I use that name again, Roni Size. If you were a Country artist it would be like having Reba McEntire in your corner.

And here she was at The Thrift Shop Ball. An artist who has played Glastonbury, Bristol Academy (in its pomp one of the places to MC at), toured and wowed the DnB global community, had a UK Top 40 hit, won numerous awards (including a NZ Music Award for Best Electronic Artist), written 8 albums, over 100 songs, had a track (Lyric On My Lip) played by the legendary Jo Whiley on her BBC show, and later in her career became an esteemed producer.

Pioneer. Icon. Supreme DnB orator and freestyler to the damn fine beats played by Chiccoreli (husband Ben Sheppard).

I left Totara Street on a high from Tali’s delivery. Irrespective of whether you love, loathe, or are indifferent to DnB, being present as an artist performs at Tali’s level is something to cherish.

What troubles me is a very real awareness both during the show and after is that it is 1) A rare thing to witness a NZ drum and bass MC at Tali’s level in our backyard, and, 2) It is a rare thing to witness a New Zealand MC in New Zealand.

It’s almost as if we (and by ‘we’ I mean people who attend gigs and the industry that delivers them) have accepted a level of what qualifies as entertainment and decided that was good enough. I don’t believe it is.

I’m thankful the team behind Thrift Shop Ball (Rozella Presents and Mamamanagement) brought Tali and Chiccoreli to Totara St. Others need to follow. I’m not saying you should book Tali (though you should), but if artists of her calibre are not celebrated as they are in the UK/European festival scene, we could lose the next generation of aspiring MCs who would have been inspired to learn their craft had they known there was a clear path to one day being on a stage, delivering 200wpm+ with supreme enunciation, whilst freestyling about the audience. Oh. And singing too.

If others do not follow then, alas, we will have to make do with the mainstream of a DJ-only booking culture. No matter how accomplished or original the DJ is, there is room for others on a bill. The risk of losing a future generation of MCs, and not nourishing the creative subculture it feeds, is worth charging extra at the door for, and it is worth paying extra at the door for. I hope there is a venue near you with a night showcasing MCs. If there is, do go along. Some may not be your cup of tea, but an MC needs an audience.

the feelers

Totara Street.

Why I chose this picture:

Queen Street, Auckland, the year 1999. You could get something to eat, drink, and be entertained for little more than loose change. It went like this.

You’d (I mean, me) start at Muffin Break right down the bottom of Queen St. I have a sweet tooth and if you timed it right late afternoon you could get two about to be thrown out muffins for $2. One bran muffin. One naughty. In truth, I didn’t really care that much for the muffin part. I just wanted the topping. 

Toppings licked, I was off, heading for Borders in the Imax/Sky City Metro/place people used to hang out at/makes you pine for days gone by when you think about Queen Street. Borders was all narrow in my memory, a little out of order and with lots of industrial pillars and hidden chairs. No-one ever seemed to buy anything. Me included. You’d move from magazines to fiction, to non fiction, and back to magazines, and an hour would have passed without a dollar leaving your wallet. Looking around, you’d see others do the same loop. Like people who enter the supermarket at the same time, do their big shop, and then leave, you too would leave with these folk. And if you were skint, as I was, you’d be heading for the same place: Real Groovy.

I associate Real Groovy with Big Day Out, Supersystem, and turntables. I cite turntables because of the bank of turntables where you could play records, but which had (and please, Real Groovers correct me on this) a warning on each deck about either being careful with the stylus, or you had to ask to borrow it (I never asked). The Big Day Out association is because, well, Big Day Out, used to be the thing. Heck, Real Groovy may not have sold tickets there, but, it’s in my head they did and they used to always have some chalkboards or posters as you walked in that made you think you’d get FOMO before FOMO existed.

That takes us to Supersystem, the debut album by the feelers that got me hooked onto the feelers. For some reason, it was on one of the listen to stations in Real Groovy. It shouldn’t have been. I mean, it was about a year after Supersystem was released, the album had gone platinum, been at number one in the NZ album charts, and been awarded lots of gongs. It was surely another band’s turn to have their CD up there next to a set of headphones and the play button (if you’re not of my generation and you can’t picture this, basically there would be 3-4 albums on show, usually on a side wall, and you could listen your way through each, though not always as often the system broke and you’d have to go and find the next headphone station).

Anyways, for some reason, someone at Real Groovy must have thought there was at least one person out there in New Zealand who in 1999 had not heard Supersystem and they needed to. That person was me. I don’t even think I’d heard of the feelers as I was living in Luton, England at the time and New Zealand music wasn’t really a thing amongst the locals. But there it was. Resting a little plastic ledge on a wall, next to a set of headphones, in an iconic record store the day I entered. Supersystem. The album cover did it. Got my attention, that is. There’s three fellas, a bit older than me, off centre to the right, with two at the back and one at the front, smiling like he’s never been happier. And they’re wearing black, and it’s all cool, and the fonts are epic, and it’s set on white, and the album name is attitude and energy. Yep, I’m listening to this thing. And it starts. First track: Pressure Man.

Take the hammer

Smash the glass

Take the glass and cut

The Mother Earth opens up

And sucks you down

It was the next line that got me.

It sucks your sorry ass into the ground

The way that frontman James Reid delivers ‘ass’ just got me (if you know the song, you’ll know). I was sold then. I was buying the album. Cassette. Let’s not be too fancy. I only had a Walkman. But boy did I love that cassette. Like I loved Venus (track 3, so melodic and ripe for a film), and Supersystem (track 11) and back to Float (track 9). Fast forward, fast reverse, I wore that cassette out in the months to come. What an album. Best of their six, though in fairness Fishing for Lisa (track 5, Communicate) and One World (One World album), Trying to Get By (One World), and Larger than Life (Playground Battle) have equally stellar singles.

Oops, almost forgot As Good As It Gets (Communicate). Apologies.

Which takes me to the picture. Taken not the first time I’d seen the feelers live, but the first time as a live music photographer. That’s James Reid on stage. I’ve no idea what song he’s singing. But I know I sang along to it as I sang along to them all. It’s impossible not to when you find yourself in a room with a band playing songs you fell in love with as a young, impressionable, pre-internet, can only afford going stale muffins, young man. People to my side were no different. We’d fallen in love with Supersystem the album, and all its ebbs, flows, attitude, and tenderness. Perhaps we wanted to be in the band back then in the late 90s. Or perhaps we just wanted to listen to Venus on a Walkman hoping the batteries lasted for a repeat. It doesn’t matter.

I just know that when I look at this picture, and I could have chosen any from that night in July, 2022 at Totara Street in Mount Maunganui, that I remembered what it was like to fall in love with an album. Supersystem wasn’t the first for me (Kick, INXS was). But it was the first as an adult doing my own thing, spending my own money, wandering up and down a long old street that looked nothing like Luton. 

So thank you, dear, sweet Real Groovy salesperson who put the feelers onto the listening post the day I walked in. I owe you, and the feelers, much. Thank you.

People into the music

Totara Street, Mt Maunganui

Why I chose this picture:

The last picture of the night. Not the best till last. Or my favourite. But the one that means most. Not because of the band (No Cigar, who are more than worthy of the admission fee), or photographic reason (anyone could have taken this with a little guidance) or something joyful or poignant about the day for me (July 6, 2023). Instead, it is the people; the mass of people in a non-arena music venue. Now, I get the need for arenas and the economic and creative ecosystems they (for some) drip feed. I just don’t care for them. They feel like admin to me. You park on the umpteenth level in a building that can charge whatever it wants. You get herded into airport check in lanes, go through one door, then another door, go to a row, sit down between phone clutchers, and watch the band you’ve paid $250 plus to see on a screen that’s so humongous you’re distracted from the stage where the real thing is happening. It’s not an experience I draw any inspiration from. Gigs need connection between the artist and the recipient. Arenas, for me, stifle that connection. Hence, why this picture of people in a non-arena environment means something. People standing wherever the space is. Those at the front able to pass a beer to the band, shake their hands, pinch the handwritten song list and take it home with them, put their bags and glasses on the edge of the stage (frowned upon, but it happens) as they dance, sing, and daydream the night away.

One day, you might see No Cigar in an arena as the headline act. But the next (pay) day please remember the non-arena venue around the corner. Even if the band doesn’t tick all your boxes, you’ll get something out of the night. The venue needs you. The band needs you. The music wants you.

The tent

Splore. Tapapakanga Regional Park, NZ.

Why I chose this picture:

So I’m standing in the tent (or, what is more like a big canvas tarp, like the type you get at village fetes and underneath are sponge cakes and giant vegetables) and I’m thinking to myself, ‘this is my scene… it ain’t gonna get better than this.’ For a pre-first day, festival pre-loading dance sesh that’s quite a confident (nay, sad) call to make to oneself. Surely, there’s enough on the festival menu to better this, however joyous it felt as camp arrivals shimmied in. I mean, coming up at Splore 2023 there was the epic (point of order: they’re all epic) Kae Tempest, Rei, Bret McKenzie, Haus of Yolo, Troy Kingi, Proteins of Magic, Theia, some epic vegan dishes from the vendors, mud slides, sunshine, and the big old Saturday night dress up like a lightbulb and then some party. The early arrivals warm up could never beat that lot.

Only it did. For the thing before the thing, always outdoes the thing. Christmas Eve beats Christmas Day. Spring beats summer. Pre-club bar beats the club. Opening credits beat the film (I’m looking at you, Harry Potter). Don’t feel glum about this. We all know it to be true. It helps us cope when the main act disappoints or ends. And it helps us know when we find ourselves in tents in fields, at night, with strangers, that music at the right beat for one’s tastes makes the thing better than the thing. Now, others may have walked in, walked out, and entered the head space of tomorrow will be better. Only it wasn’t. Thursday night’s pre-Splore main act schedule was (for me) better than Splore.

I can’t say that for the person in the picture (DJ Leah Luna, she’s great, you should check out her work), but looking at the shot does take me back to that tent. I was a Splore virgin. A wet behind the ears Splore-ite, armed with preconceived ideas, bug spray, and camping gear (gas-powered stove) and kitchen items (I took a kettle in the hope I’d find a socket) I’d never use. I’m not nostalgic for the tent. I’m nostalgic for the beginning. For the night before. For when everything is fresh. Much like now. I miss the start. The part before I began ‘So I’m standing in the…’ Why this is, I care not. Just as I did not care in the tent.

Oh. Breakthrough. That’s why I’m writing about the tent. I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking. I was listening. Watching. Maybe that’s why I took this picture of Leah Luna. Perhaps she wasn’t thinking either. Perhaps she was present. Listening. Dancing. Smiling. I know you can’t pan this picture, but I’m confident others were in this blissful state. Maybe they’re nostalgic for it too. I hope not. Nostalgia is a wretched thing. And so I shall move on, until it brews again and I crave some more.

White Chapel Jak

Totara St

Why I chose this picture:

The gig phone. Curse. Conflict. Comfort. Tool.

Tool for vanity. Tool for distraction. Tool for attention.

Some home truths, people. Home truths. You get your phone out at gigs (with one exception, which we’ll get to) because you want people who aren’t in the room to see you. 

Instead of being in one place, you’re in two, middle-fingering the people who want you to be in the room. We call these people artists. A catch-all noun for folk who put some/nearly all/all of themselves out into the world, whereupon strangers devour, steal, judge, imitate, idolise, and (painfully) often ignore. 

Live streaming, long clips, short clips, reels, shorts, blah blah blah, may seem to be a gesture of respect for artists’ craft. It is not, for you are distracted from the craft. From the melodies and the meaning. Someone is singing to you. Do not look away. They have not been rude to you, so do not be rude to them. Put your phone away (better still, don’t bring it) and listen.

With an exception: When the artist asks you to raise it, torch on, and sway your raised arm like it was the early 90s and you were holding a lighter. It looks good in the room. And in a print. The picture above, the one taken at a White Chapel Jak gig, is above me on the office wall. It doesn’t remind me of phones, but of the gig, and the artists on stage. My word, White Chapel Jak are good. I may never see them again, but I can remember them. Go see them. Remember them. And don’t use your phone.

Music Photography Galleries

How to get in touch

To make an enquiry, simply send me a message via the form below and I’ll get right back to you. I’m based near Tauranga, New Zealand and work across the country.