Live at the TSB Arena Wellington
6 May 2026
Live Review by Music Journalist: Paul Marshall
Dancing Close to History: Split Enz Prove Some Songs Never Fade at TSB Arena.
The first thing you notice walking into TSB Arena on a crisp May night is the crowd, less a demographic, more a living archive. There are the faithful who bought Split Enz records when vinyl still ruled the earth, shoulder to shoulder with a younger wave who’ve inherited the band through playlists, parents, or pure curiosity. Call it a communion of eras. Call it proof that some music refuses to age quietly.
First up Hans Pucket take the stage with the kind of scrappy charm you can’t fake. “This song is our next song…” the frontman offers, before promptly forgetting to name it, earning a round of laughter from his bandmates and a forgiving grin from the crowd. It’s the kind of moment that either sinks a set or makes it human. Here, it’s the latter.
They lean into tight, interwoven harmonies, bass, guitar, and drums locking together with absolute precision. There’s a uniqueness to their stagecraft, too: at one point the drummer abandons the kit entirely, reappearing on keys, shaker, even sax, while the guitarist steps in behind the drums. It’s chaotic, but it works.
Their song “No Drama” arrives with a four-part vocal harmony arrangement that lands like a statement of intent, ambitious, textured, and undeniably catchy. It’s also the first moment a small pocket of the audience breaks rank and starts dancing.
By the time they drop the line from their song GYSS “I hope by the end of the week I get my shit straight,” you believe them, they already have.
If there’s a gripe, it’s technical: the house lights stubbornly refuse to dim until halfway through the set, leaving the band visually stranded when they deserve focus. Still, Hans Pucket leave the stage as ones to watch, equal parts wit, musicianship, and restless creativity.
When Split Enz take the stage, they waste no time. “Shark Attack” hits first, sharp, angular, and still bristling with that art-rock urgency that once made them outliers in the late-’70s scene. It’s a statement: this isn’t nostalgia as museum piece; this is nostalgia with teeth.
“History Never Repeats” follows and suddenly the floor is alive, feet stomping in unison, a collective memory reactivated. Though the keys threaten to drown the vocals in the verse, the chorus punches through, and the room answers back.
By the time they roll into “What’s the Matter with You,” the harmonies wobble just slightly, age creeping into the edges, but the spirit remains intact. Neil Finn pauses to grin at the front rows: “I like the maverick dancers who just stand up and go for it.” It’s both invitation and approval.
“One Step Ahead” (with Noel on percussion) sharpens the sound, and by “Message to My Girl,” the room is awash in phone screens, modern lighters swaying to a song that predates them by decades.
The AV production underscores the moment beautifully, especially during “Double Happy,” where a montage of the band’s famously theatrical costumes flickers behind them, a reminder of just how defiantly strange they once were.
Seventeen years on from their last major chapter, the lineup has shifted. Familiar names like Mike Chunn, Malcolm Green, and Nigel Griggs are absent, but not hauntingly so. In their place, James Milne (better known as Lawrence Arabia) on bass and Matt Eccles behind the kit bring a quiet steadiness, not replacements, but recalibrations.
Then comes the tipping point: “Six Months in a Leaky Boat.” If there was anyone left seated, they aren’t now. The song surges, joyous and slightly unhinged, and the arena finally gives itself over completely.
Between songs, the band leaned into storytelling. Tim Finn, ever the elliptical narrator, took a detour back to Te Awamutu: childhood nights, a telescope, stars deliberately blurred to feel closer. “That’s the central metaphor for the rest of my life,” he said. “Just put it all out of focus.” It explained more than it should have.
Later, introducing “I Got You” and its era, Tim recalled a TV appearance on New Faces, “before Idol, before X Factor,” he laughed. Eddie Rayner chimed in: it was the moment he decided to join the band. Neil shot back, “At the time you were in the sewers,” referencing Rayner’s pre-Enz day job. “I’ve known you more than half my life and I never knew that.” It was loose, familial, slightly absurd, exactly the energy that’s always set them apart.
“Little Creatures” turned communal in a different way, Tim coaxing the audience into a full-arena howl, part singalong, part séance. Hundreds obliged, a room collectively wooing like it might actually summon something.
The encore is looser, more human. “I Hope I Never” sees Tim Finn reaching for those high notes, sometimes catching them, sometimes not. But perfection was never the point. The song lands anyway, carried by decades of emotional residue.
Meanwhile, Eddie Rayner, the band’s resident mad scientist, glides across the keys with the confidence of someone who’s only improved with time. Like a fine wine, yes, but one that still fizzes unexpectedly. Noel Crombie shifts to drums late in the set, a reminder that his role has always been fluid and theatrical.
This wasn’t a perfect show, nor should it be, it’s live. There were moments when the mix faltered, when harmonies slipped, when time made itself known. But perfection was never what made Split Enz matter. It was their willingness to be odd, ambitious, theatrical, to blur the line between pop song and performance art.
And in 2026, that spirit still holds.
Because history might not repeat, but for a couple of hours in Wellington, it sure felt like it was dancing dangerously close.
Reviewer: Paul Marshall
Photography by Paul Marshall
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