The Hives
Enmore Theatre
Sydney, Australia
July 23, 2025
Let’s be clear: The Hives didn’t play a show. They detonated one.
On a cool Sydney night at the Enmore Theatre, the Swedish kings of garage rock stormed the stage like tuxedoed insurgents, staging a velvet-clad coup d’état against anything remotely resembling restraint. It wasn’t a concert. It was controlled chaos in formalwear - a punk rock opera where the arias were screamed, the choreography was sweat-slicked, and the encore felt more like a political uprising than a curtain call.
Opening notes? Blink and you missed them.
Before anyone could even get their overpriced beer to chest level, the band had already kickstarted a mass revival. The Enmore transformed into a confetti cannon of limbs, shrieks, and spilled drinks, with the audience erupting into the kind of feral glee typically reserved for tax returns that exceed expectations.
And The Hives? They lived for it.
Dressed like matador dandies who accidentally wandered into a punk riot and decided to headline it, the band oozed precisely the kind of unshakable confidence that comes from knowing you’re the best thing in any room - and having the setlist to prove it.
Pelle Almqvist, the high priest of theatrical mayhem, remains the only frontman alive who can convincingly threaten both the front row and existential malaise in a single breath. He doesn’t perform - he commandeers. Whether scaling the speaker stacks like a rock ‘n’ roll Tarzan or snatching a fan’s phone mid-chorus for a surprise video monologue, Almqvist was chaos in a cummerbund. Charismatic? Obviously. Exhausting? Also yes. But utterly unmissable? Every second.
At one point, he insisted on restarting a song “just to get the entrance right.” That’s not diva behaviour. That’s performance art on a deadline.
Nicholaus Arson, wielding his guitar like a chainsaw carved from disco lightning, proved once again that solos don’t need to be long to be lethal. The rest of the band kept the whole machine purring like a V8 engine on a diet of espresso and delinquency - tight, loud, and endlessly slick without ever slipping into self-parody.
And the new material from the upcoming album? Far from filler. Each track smacked of that rare energy the sort that dares to believe rock can still feel urgent, fun, and a little bit dangerous. Like someone took early Beatles melodies, dressed them in leather, and pushed them down a flight of stairs (lovingly).
By the end, sweat was currency and grins were non-negotiable. Reality was politely shown the door. For a glorious hour and a bit, we were all just creatures of instinct, wrapped in distortion and bound by the gospel of guitar.
Can't say my review of it will be as well written or entertaining as this book of 50 poems by Daryl Gussin. Daryl is the managing editor of Razorcake. Daryl was in an awesome punk band called God Equals Genocide. Daryl is my friend but also possibly my spirit animal. Part of me wonders if the leather jacket that Daryl is looking for is the same jacket I’ve been looking for. It probably is and I hope he finds it.
