Kneecap take over the Powerstation and it’s a night of chaos, craic, and Celtic rebellion.
I arrived early, well before the doors had opened, and already around 50 eager fans were queued up for the night’s event.
With time to kill, I decided to grab a quick beer across the road at Galbraith’s. Partly because the day before, I’d broken my little toe tripping over my daughter’s mini trampoline, and a bit of liquid pain relief was more than welcome.
Inside Galbraith’s, the place was heaving, packed with punters, and the bar queue stretched over 20 deep. Fortunately, knowing one of the barmen had its perks, and my drink arrived swiftly. Once I’d finished my medicine, I headed back to the venue.
To my surprise, the room was still relatively empty, apart from the 50 or so dedicated fans who had been queuing earlier.
I made my way upstairs to secure a prime, centre-stage spot. Soon after, I found myself chatting with a couple of die-hard fans, one of whom was rocking a Kneecap balaclava.
A balaclava. In summer. Now, that’s commitment. And judging by our well-educated conversation, they weren’t just here for a casual night out. They were serious about their music and heritage.
Swizl Jager’s opening live set wasn’t just a gig, it was a statement. A thunderous, unapologetic declaration that New Zealand Hip-Hop isn’t just holding its own. It’s charging forward like a runaway freight train.
From the moment Jager stepped onto the stage, clad in his signature streetwear, oversized tee, cap tilted just right, he radiated the kind of effortless charisma only true mic-masters possess.
He wasn’t just rapping, he was commanding. His stage presence was electric, switching seamlessly between sharp-witted crowd banter and razor-sharp verses, delivered in both te reo Māori and English. At one point, he laid it out bluntly.
If you have a native language, whatever you know, speak it. If they don’t understand—fuck ‘em. Just like tonight, I’m gonna rap in my language, and if you don’t understand and you don’t vibe with it—fuck you. If you do, I love you.
That’s Swizl Jager. Unfiltered. Unapologetic. And absolutely captivating.
His flow sliced through the beats like a samurai sword. Sharp, relentless, and precise. But more than just technical skill, he brought a raw energy that gripped the room.
By the time his set wrapped, there was no doubt he had done his job as an opener. Heating up the crowd, commanding the stage, and setting the tone for a night that promised nothing less than chaos and brilliance.
There’s a fine line between chaos and control, and Belfast’s own Kneecap danced all over it at Auckland’s Powerstation last night.
The Northern Irish rap trio, Móglaí Bap, Mo Chara, and DJ Próvaí, are no strangers to mayhem. But in front of a Kiwi crowd hungry for unfiltered, politically charged, bilingual madness, they delivered an absolute riot of a show.
An Irish barman tells me the Kneecap show sold out in an hour. One hour. That’s all it took for Auckland’s Irish diaspora and Kiwi punters alike to snap up every last ticket, proving that the Belfast rap trio’s chaotic fusion of Hip-Hop and politics has well and truly reached this side of the world.
The energy in the room is thick with anticipation. The crowd is a sea of green, white, and orange. European Irish and Kiwi accents blending in a raucous symphony.
Alternative Ulster by Stiff Little Fingers blares through the speakers, setting the mood with Punk spirit and anti-establishment fire, a knowing nod to Kneecap’s subversive DNA.
Then, the lights dim. Too dim.
Someone yells, turn the fucking lights on! But the stage remains shrouded in shadows, a deliberate choice by Kneecap, adding to the anarchic feel of the night. This isn’t about crisp video content, it’s about being here, in the moment, lost in the madness.
And madness ensues. Kneecap explode onto the stage, spitting rapid-fire rhymes in Irish and English, igniting the room with raw, unfiltered energy.
Between bangers, they remind the crowd. In case you didn’t know, Maggie’s in a box… she’s still in a box, referring to the long-dead but never-forgotten Margaret Thatcher. The room erupts in a roar of approval.
It’s not just the music, it’s the attitude.
Móglaí Bap, ever the provocateur, prowls the stage with a bottle in one hand and a mic in the other, goading the crowd with a knowing grin.
Mo Chara, relentless in delivery, spits bars like Molotov’s, while DJ Próvaí keeps it all stitched together with pulsating beats and razor-sharp timing.
When they launch into Sniffer Dogs, the venue practically shakes, a sea of bodies moving in sync with the unapologetic raw energy pouring off the stage.
But Kneecap aren’t just here to entertain, they’re here to shake things up. Between tracks, they take jabs at political hypocrisy, throw tongue-in-cheek nods to their Irish roots, and make it abundantly clear that their art is as much about resistance as it is about revelry.
The crowd, diverse, sweaty, and fully engaged, laps it up, chanting in Gaeilge as if Auckland were the heart of West Belfast for the night.
We are sickly wee boys, but you brought us the energy! they shout, feeding off the crowd, giving it back tenfold. The Powerstation transforms into a pulsating, bouncing wave of bodies, pints spilling, voices hoarse from chanting, laughing, screaming.
Then comes the penultimate track, my personal favourite, the bass heavy Get Your Brits Out. The crowd erupts, beer flying, bodies bouncing. Kneecap’s signature blend of Irish and English lyricism, paired with pounding beats and Punk ethos, makes for an electrifying mix that leaves the audience gasping for breath between chants and mosh pits.
The highlight? A frenzied, sweat-drenched rendition of C.E.A.R.T.A. that sees fans climb onto shoulders, waving tricolours and middle fingers in equal measure.
By the time the final track, Hood, closes out the night, there isn’t a still body in the house. The trio leave the stage like they’ve just won a battle. Because, in a way, they have.
Kneecap don’t just perform, they infiltrate, disrupt, and ignite. And last night, The Powerstation bore witness to a gig that wasn’t just loud…it was revolutionary.
Paul Marshall
Photography by Den
Kneecap
Swizl Jäger
