Live at The Tuning Fork
21 June 2025
Live Review by Music Journalist: Paul Marshall
Jordan Luck Band Set The Tuning Fork Ablaze with Punk-Soaked, Hit-Laden, Kiwi Anthems, and Rock ’n’ Roll Swagger.
It began with the devil’s anthem. As AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” roared through The Tuning Fork PA, it was less an intro track and more a calling card: the Jordan Luck Band don’t just take the stage — they arrive. And when Jordan himself bounds into the spotlight, arms wide like a messianic rock 'n' roll preacher, he belts out, “Good evening, Auckland!” — and we’re off like a shot.
Opening with Social Life from the criminally underrated 2013 album Eight Days In Roundhead, Luck wastes no time diving into the satirical grit and melodic snarl that made him a household name. The track, steeped in '80s punk swagger and Roundhead Studios nostalgia, is a straight-up doozie. For the deep divers: hunt down the raw 1983 demo version on Spotify — it’s a fascinating time capsule and a testament to the idea that a great song is timeless, even when it takes 30 years to bloom.
Next up, Jordan flashes that familiar grin and lobs a curveball: “Here’s a new one we just written!” before launching into Airway Spies. It's classic Luck — jangly, raw, infectious. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman screams, “I love you, Jordan!” — and you get the sense she’s speaking for half the room.
Jordan’s voice? Ageless. Like he’s done a back-alley deal with the rock gods. The band — a marriage of five well-worn souls — is locked tighter than a bank vault. Walsh and Luck share lead on a goosebump-inducing cover of INXS’s Don’t Change, with Jordan sliding in on backing vocals, delivering harmonies that could teach most indie bands a lesson in restraint and style.
On rhythm patrol, Beaver brought the thunder — a storm behind the kit that could've stirred the dust off a desert highway — while Rich Mixture laid down a bassline so thick and gooey it might as well have come with a knife and toast. This band aren’t just seasoned — they’re scorched by the road, road-worn warriors of the wastelands, packing more punch than Mad Max and more beans than Billy the Kid in a baked bean brawl.
Then came a curveball — Jordan, always the raconteur, leaned into the mic with a grin and a story: “Truth be told,” he said, “she’s from Whangaparāoa, has done 17 million gigs, was a member of the Luck Band... until she deserted us one rainy night in Greymouth. And I don’t blame her.” Enter Mareea Paterson — bassist, badass, and bona fide New Zealand rock royalty. If that name doesn’t ring a bell, your music education’s missing a vital chapter. Mareea was the founding pulse behind Tadpole — a band I had the pleasure of managing during their explosive run. Post-Tadpole, she’s lent her low-end fire to Tim Finn, Dave Dobbyn, the Jordan Luck Band, and even crossed the Pacific to join Chicago alt-rockers Veruca Salt — yes, that Veruca Salt, of “Volcano Girls” bungee-jumping-with-instruments fame. Somewhere in between, she even cooked up a brilliant little side project which was one of my favourites called Friends from Sweden — no prizes for guessing who was in it. Watching from the wings tonight was her brother Will, camera in hand, catching every note of his sister’s homecoming set like a proud roadie with a blood bond.
The night’s highlight? La La LuLu. No contest. The crowd swelled in approval, unified by a tune that bridges generations. Who Loves Who The Most had the room singing as one, a beer-spilling chorus of nostalgia and affection. It's clear these songs still matter — not just to the fans, but to the man singing them.
Bryan Bell then steps up to the mic for a soaring take on Split Enz’s History Never Repeats, giving the Finns a nod in the most reverent, raucous way possible.
And the shirts? Oh, the shirts. Jordan, rock’s resident shit-stirrer, sports a bold white tee with the phrase Kiss My Black Sabbath printed in heavy black type — a reminder that Luck’s always had one foot in satire and the other in rebellion. One of my favourite flashbacks is when I was at The Coke a Cola Mountain Rock Festival, when he and The Exponents stormed the stage in matching Pepsi tees while playing under Coke sponsorship. Classic rock n roll shenanigans and the way it should be.
The venue erupts with Victoria, and suddenly the floor turns into a pogo pit of collective memory. Arms wave, voices crack, and the Tuning Fork vibrates with a joy only Jordan Luck can summon.
Shoutout to the sound engineer, who was tastefully panning guitars left to right and throwing in some snare FX magic that elevated the mix without ever stealing the spotlight. It’s these subtle flourishes that helped distribute the band’s sonic energy well into the ether.
Final Verdict: If you weren’t at The Tuning Fork tonight, you missed more than just a gig — you missed a masterclass in Kiwi rock showmanship, delivered by a national treasure still very much at the height of his powers.
Reviewer: Paul Marshall
Photography by Paul Marshall
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