Live at The Powerstation
8 September 2026
Live Review by Music Journalist: Paul Marshall
The Damned at The Powerstation: 50 Years On, Still Neat, Still Nasty, Still Damned.
There are gigs where you arrive wondering what kind of night it is going to be. Then there are gigs where you walk through the doors and immediately realise that everyone in the room already knows exactly why they are there.
Tonight, The Powerstation is filled with seasoned concertgoers. No support band. No warm-up act. No messing about.
Just The Damned.
And after five decades of punk-rock history, that seems entirely appropriate.
The occasion is The Damned’s 50th anniversary, with the line-up of Dave Vanian, Captain Sensible, Rat Scabies, Paul Gray and Monty Oxymoron.
When the band walks onto the stage, the response is immediate. The audience erupts. These aren't people who have accidentally wandered into the wrong room. They have been waiting a long time to see these particular heroes standing in front of them.
I’m down in the pit with my camera, positioned directly in front of Captain Sensible’s microphone.
Regular readers will know I had the pleasure of talking to the Captain just a couple of weeks ago from his home in England. Tonight, he looks down at me and smiles. I can see the moment of recognition, although he is probably trying to work out exactly where he recognises my face from.
Then the music takes over.
Dave Vanian looks every inch the rock ’n’ roll frontman, dressed in black suit, black hat, black gloves and white shirt, while Captain is sporting a red-striped t-shirt and his unmistakable beret. Rat Scabies is ensconced behind his drums, absolutely pumping, while bassist Paul Gray, cool as ever in black shirt, shades and black cap, holds things together. At the back sits keyboard player Monty Oxymoron, somewhat tucked away but an important part of the sonic machinery.
And what becomes immediately apparent is just how tight this band is.
These guys have been doing this for 50 years. You might expect some evidence of wear and tear. Instead, they sound like a finely tuned machine.
Actually, that description isn't mine. Rat Scabies himself has described The Damned as a “finely tuned engine” heading into their 50th year. After tonight, it's difficult to argue with him.
A few songs in, Captain starts chatting with the audience and, naturally, things take an unexpected turn.
“Does anyone like Tim Tams?”
The crowd responds.
“This next song is dedicated to all of you Tim Tam fans.”
The cheer tells the story. For international readers who haven't yet experienced one of New Zealand's most important cultural contributions to civilisation, a Tim Tam is a chocolate biscuit. You need to try one.
Then comes the music again.
During “Is It a Dream”, the middle fold back speaker decides it has had enough of punk rock and goes Pete Tong. A technician races onto the stage to rescue it, and the technical problem continues to plague things for a while.
But The Damned aren't exactly a band that lets a faulty monitor stop the show.
The crowd, interestingly, is relatively tame. Perhaps five decades of combined punk experience has taught everyone the value of conserving energy.
During “Nasty”, a tiny group of maybe ten people gets a proper pogo and mosh going in one concentrated little patch of the floor.
Then “Making Time” arrives and Dave removes his hat.
Now we're getting rock ’n’ roll.
Rat is playing behind a Perspex screen, protecting the rest of the band from the full force of his drums. Curiously, the screen only shields one side of the kit, facing Monty and Paul, leaving the rest of us free to experience the Scabies assault.
And assault it is.
Vanian works the stage beautifully, moving from side to side and acknowledging the crowd, particularly those pressed against the front barrier. His signature vintage-style Sure 55 chrome dynamic microphone adds another unmistakable piece of visual theatre to the performance.
Then comes “Love Song.”
Dave extends the microphone stand to its fullest reach and leans out towards the audience, inviting them to sing.
They don't need much encouragement.
The entire Powerstation erupts into one enormous singalong, sounding less like a punk audience and more like a stadium full of football hooligans.
And then there's “Neat Neat Neat.”
My personal favourite.
This is where the evening really starts to explode.
Suddenly the tame crowd isn't quite so tame. The older punks are being reminded of exactly why they came here in the first place. There is something wonderfully ridiculous about watching a room full of people who have probably spent decades going to gigs suddenly rediscovering their inner 1976 hooligan.
And The Damned are loving it.
Captain even has a moment of surreal stage business, playing with a can on his guitar neck.
Because, well, why wouldn't he?
It's a set that understands what people have come to hear without turning into a museum piece.
And then Rat gets his drum solo.
I'm a drummer myself and, believe it or not, I've never really been a fan of drum solos.
Rat Scabies may have changed my mind.
It's tasty, powerful and, most importantly, the appropriate length. A few minutes is enough. No unnecessary showing off. No extended examination of every tom-tom in existence.
Just a drummer demonstrating that, despite the number attached to his age, he has absolutely no intention of slowing down.
At one point during the encore Dave even wanders over to the keyboards and has a dabble alongside Monty, the two of them laughing together.
It's the kind of moment that tells you something about The Damned. For all the history, all the mythology and all the importance of what they did half a century ago, these people still look like they're having fun.
Then comes the final song.
“Smash It Up.”
Before launching into it, Dave announces:
“I'd like to dedicate this set to Dolly Parton.”
And with that, The Damned descend into glorious punk chaos.
The band are visibly buzzing. There's adrenaline, jet lag and the unmistakable feeling that nobody quite wants the night to finish. Comments are fired through the microphones. Everyone is laughing.
Eventually Dave gives us his verdict:
“That was hard work.”
Captain follows with:
“Happy Christmas everyone.”
Then comes the wonderfully bleak observation that, at their age, they probably won't make it down here again.
A few seconds later:
“We're better than the Sex Pistols.”
Now, I have to agree.
When the Sex Pistols played Auckland, they managed just over an hour.
The Damned have just given us 90 glorious minutes.
The evening doesn't quite finish when the lights come up.
After the show I catch up with Captain to say hello. He tells me he's been awake since 5am because of jet lag. The band had stopped over in Hong Kong on the journey to New Zealand, but even with that break, getting here is a gruelling trip.
I also catch up with Dave, who is still in fine spirits and clearly buzzing from the show.
I tell him I'm a journalist here reviewing the gig.
He jokes that he had better give me a fiver.
I tell him there's no need, he needs to give me a tenner for a good review instead.
We both laugh.
And on that note, perhaps it is time to finish.
Because what else can you really say about The Damned after witnessing this?
They are still chaotic.
Still entertaining.
Still capable of writing and delivering great songs.
Still capable of making a room full of people sing like football hooligans.
And, most importantly, they still possess an absurd amount of energy.
Fifty years into the experiment, The Damned don't feel like a heritage act going through the motions. They feel like five musicians who have somehow discovered that surviving punk for half a century is actually an excuse to have even more fun with it.
If you are thinking about seeing The Damned, go.
You won't be disappointed.
They are still very much The Damned.
And tonight at The Powerstation, they were bloody good at being it.
Reviewer: Paul Marshall
Photography by Paul Marshall
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