Review: Christian Stanger
Photography: Dan Maynard

I could’ve sworn it was The Arena, but apparently no, it was The Tivoli when, in 2005, I first made the acquaintance of the five-headed Swedish punk rock hydra: Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist, Vigilante Carlstroem, Chris Dangerous, Nicholas Arson and The Johan and Only (a line-up too ridiculous not to recite in full). They hit that venue like an amphetamine hitting the bloodstream, mid-tour for Tyrannosaurus Hives, deep in their third album cycle, and still on their way to the top.

Howlin’ Pelle was on fire, strutting in split-kicks, spitting nonsensical fire, and taking souls when two songs in Carlstroem busted an E string. In my recollection, this was fixed by stage techs almost instantly. Pelle then paused, grinned, and ordered the crowd to “applaud the efficiency of The Hives!” Tonight, ten years since their last jaunt, and a world gone sideways, they return, to bring us back to our 20-something selves and show the next wave how it’s done.

Melbourne’s CLAMM opens the night with plenty of volume. The trio start brashly with loud, harsh distortion, with feedback filling the gaps between lyrics, where they could be made out. Vocalist, Jack Summers knows who the crowd is here to see, and makes sure to mention The Hives more than once, keeping the room onside. As a first-time listener, there is an urgency and energy to the set.

Noisy as hell with momentum building as the room begins to fill. They tailor the performance to suit the night, chase the applause a little, and warm up the ears for what is to follow.

I thought the crowd was going to be either grey and balding or dead, but no, The Hives are evergreen. The veterans are here, mostly hanging near the back, all black tees and bad backs, but there’s the new generation packed tight up the front of the stage for their first encounter.

The Hives are heralded on stage by the huge, inflated balloons behind them, first the musicians, then the maestro. Dressed typically sharply with black and white western-style suits this time, The Hives open up with Bogus Operandi, setting the tone immediately. The set is heavy on the latest album, The Death of Randy Fitzsimmons (Rigor Mortis Radio, Countdown To Shutdown, Trapdoor Solution, to name a few), and before each track, Pelle announces, “this is your favourite song from that album.” And ya’ know, he might be right.

There’s a lot that’s been written about Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist. You could definitely say he has main character energy, but you would be underselling his charisma. He has all the other energies too. He’s the support, he’s the suave aristocrat, the villain, the town crier, the cheerleader, the ringmaster and the protagonist rolled into one tectonic eruption of a frontman. Part showman, part comedian, part cartoon physics experiment bouncing across the stage, all exaggerated movement and easy chaos. He’s in complete control of his audience, raring to go and daring the crowd to keep up.

At one point, he requests that we gift him “the coastline” (presumably the stretch between Brisbane and the Gold Coast) and, of course, we agree. We’re not assholes! The band reward us with Hate To Say I Told You, which is greeted like the coming of Christ. All the nostalgic tracks receive a similar reception. Walk Idiot Walk, Main Offender, Try It Again are all accounted for, making up a triumphant cohort of crowd-pleasers, a payoff for what Pelle describes as “playing rock ‘n’ roll that no one likes for eight years, and thirty years later, getting to play a show in Brisbane.”

The final guitar stabs of an 11-minute encore version of Tick Tick Boom collapse in a pile of fuzz, sending us in the crowd into rapture. The Hives, extracting the admiration from us and converting us via the sermon of Father Pelle. Weaponised nostalgia is what I expected, but I have been sorely misled. This is no legacy tour. The Hives have come to show us that garage, punk, and rock ‘n’ roll are still alive, still roaring like a jet engine, and still wearing a snazzy suit that is, at all times, about 2.5 seconds away from being absolutely ruined.