Live at The Powerstation
15 March 2026
Live Review by Music Journalist: Paul Marshall
From Faroese Fog to Auckland Night: Eivør’s Mesmerising Powerstation Performance.
Walking into The Powerstation tonight, the first thing that stops me in my tracks isn’t the stage, the lighting rig, or even the background music. It’s the merchandise line.
And not just any line.
A massive queue snaking across the foyer, one of the biggest I’ve ever seen at The Powerstation, and doors have only just opened. In an era where streaming has flattened the economics of music, the merch table has become the new record store counter. Tonight’s crowd clearly understands that.
The audience itself is an intriguing mix. Guys in Metallica T-shirts stand shoulder to shoulder with women in flowing dresses covered in intricate tattoos. It feels less like a standard gig crowd and more like a gathering of tribes, metalheads, Nordic folk enthusiasts, goth romantics and curious explorers of sound.
While waiting, I chat to two young women beside me whose accents I can’t quite place. Iran, it turns out. Are they fans? Not really. They simply saw the show advertised on Instagram and bought tickets on a whim.
Now that’s bravery.
But it’s also the purest form of concert-going, walking into the unknown and letting the music find you.
Before the support act even appears, the PA drifts into the haunting piano lines of Daydreaming by Radiohead. It’s a clever choice, atmospheric, slightly unsettling, and perfectly priming the room for the Nordic mysticism that’s about to unfold.
Tonight’s support artist is Sylvaine, the project of Norwegian musician Kathrine Shepard. Born in San Diego but raised between cultures, Shepard carved her reputation in the atmospheric black-metal and shoegaze worlds, even becoming the first woman nominated for Best Metal Album at Norway’s prestigious Spellemannprisen.
She enters the stage to rapturous applause and takes a deep bow.
Performing initially to a backing track, her voice floats through the venue, ethereal, fragile, almost sacred. She moves slowly across the stage with the grace of a belly dancer, each motion deliberate, ritualistic.
Two songs in, she reaches for a guitar, her electric Ibanez and suddenly the stage is drenched in blue light. The crowd falls into near-total silence, broken only by occasional appreciative whoops.
Her look is striking: black pants, thick-heeled boots, a delicate black lace top, and black lipstick contrasting against flowing blonde hair. Gothic, elegant, and quietly commanding.
“It’s so nice to see you out there… wow, you’re so many people,” she smiles.
“It’s kind of a celebration of Nordic music tonight.”
It’s her first time in New Zealand.
Unfortunately, the newly installed side air-conditioning at the venue works overtime. At a typical rock show you’d never notice, but tonight, during Sylvaine’s delicate moments, the whirring fans bleed into the soundscape.
Still, the audience stands transfixed. Some close their eyes completely, absorbing the atmosphere.
Then, without warning, the serenity fractures.
Sylvaine unleashes a feral black-metal scream, sounding like a demon ripping through the clouds. It’s shocking, electrifying, and completely thrilling if you know her musical roots.
She introduces a song translated loosely as “I’m a Stranger,” explaining the track’s emotional weight and the trauma that inspired the wider album concept.
The set becomes a beautiful contradiction, gentle ambience colliding with moments of raw extremity.
A calm ocean with sudden storms.
For an opening act, it’s quietly extraordinary.
When Eivør steps on stage, the room shifts instantly.
Dressed entirely in black, a dark bustier and a dramatic head covering, she resembles some mythical Nordic queen or fallen angel emerging from folklore. Born in Syðrugøta in the Faroe Islands, Eivør has spent decades crafting a sound that merges Faroese folk traditions with cinematic electronica and primal vocal expression.
Her presence is magnetic.
“We arrived yesterday from the Faroe Islands, literally from the other side of the planet,” she says.
“It took a while to get here… but it’s totally worth it.”
The band, Mikael Blak on bass and synths, Mattias Kapnas on piano and synths, and Per Ingvaldur Højgaard Petersen behind the kit, are all dressed in black, ghost-like figures lurking in the shadows.
She introduces the haunting “Gullspunnin.”
It sounds like a fairy tale whispered into a storm.
The room falls into stunned silence.
Eivør possesses a rare gift, the ability to hold an audience in complete suspension. Watching her perform is almost hypnotic. The music feels less like a concert and more like drifting through Nordic fog on a lost ship, guided only by the voice of some celestial navigator.
Three songs in, the crowd begins swaying slowly, almost involuntarily.
The spell has taken hold.
At times Eivør’s voice morphs into strange primal sounds, squawks, shrills, and guttural cries, something that centuries ago might have gotten her labelled a witch.
Tonight, it’s pure art.
Blak switches at one point to an upright double bass, its earthy resonance pushing the rhythm section forward as Petersen, notably playing left-handed, drives the drums with quiet precision.
Not everything is perfect. Compared to previous Eivør shows I’ve attended, tonight’s audience is occasionally frustrating. Pockets of chatter ripple through the venue, especially near the sound desk, where one particularly enthusiastic hippy seems more interested in conversation than the music.
At a show this immersive, that feels almost sacrilegious.
But Eivør rises above it.
Songs like “Skyscrapers” reveal her songwriting depth, sung in English and carrying echoes of Kate Bush in their theatrical phrasing, though comparisons never quite stick. Eivør ultimately exists in her own musical universe.
Tracks like “Close to Being Free” and “Í Tokuni” push the atmosphere deeper into Nordic mysticism.
Technically, she’s extraordinary. Her microphone control alone is masterclass territory, knowing exactly when to pull away, when to lean in, when to unleash.
Her vocal range easily stretches across two octaves, but it’s the emotional commitment that stands out most.
She performs like her life depends on it.
The set closes with “Failing Free.”
And suddenly the serenity erupts.
The band thrashes into something bordering on punk energy. Eivør pounds her guitar, Petersen hammers the drums, and the entire room builds toward a thunderous crescendo.
It’s cathartic, wild, and utterly exhilarating.
The final note crashes through the venue like a storm breaking.
And just like that, the spell lifts.
For those willing to surrender to it, tonight wasn’t just a concert.
It was a journey through Nordic mythology, atmospheric metal, and the raw emotional power of a voice that feels older than the ocean itself.
And judging by that merchandise queue at the beginning of the night, Auckland knows it just witnessed something special.
Reviewer: Paul Marshall
Photography by Paul Marshall