Last night at the Biggest Pub Gig in the World, I found myself face to face with ghosts. Some real. Some metaphorical. Some sung into life by a chorus of strangers who knew exactly where they were in 1998 when Stellar released Violent or when the first riff of Be Mine Tonight made them believe in live music all over again.
It wasn’t full — not even close. Maybe 2,500 people showed. Spark can take twice that.
If we’re being honest, it was more like The Most Spacious Pub Gig in the World. You could’ve laid out a ping pong table between punters. But sometimes, the crowd size doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s about the songs, the memories, and the quiet ache that comes when you realise you’ve sung these same tunes in 1,000 pubs across the world
Tonight, for the first time, they don’t quite sound the same.
The vibe as you entered was pure Kiwi pub nostalgia turned arena spectacle. Beers were flowing. The iconic White Lady food truck parked just inside the arena. Someone shouted about a meat raffle. I still don’t know if it was real, but if it was, sign me up.
The lights — those old parcan-style rigs we used to roast under in real stinky backrooms — had been lovingly recreated, though the LEDs did all the work now.
Back then, we’d sweat through three sets, lose 10,000 calories, and walk off steaming
Not last night. Last night the heat was emotional, not physical.
Fur Patrol
Fur Patrol opened, and Julia Deans still owns that stage like no time has passed. They came out as a three-piece — tight, no fluff, just real musicianship.
I’ve played beside them before. We’ve shared stages, roadies, flat beer and long drives down state highways.
When a gear change mid-song caused a moment of chaos — a roadie dashing out with a guitar — Julia had a flash of visible panic, but it vanished in seconds. She’s a pro. Her voice? Still smoky, still fierce. The crowd? Small, but with her.
Stellar*
Then came Stellar*, and Boh Runga lit that stage like a goddamn fuse. She was warm, graceful, powerful — the kind of frontwoman who doesn’t just perform, she claims a room.
Her voice hasn’t aged; if anything, it’s gained depth. There was something quietly emotional about her set — polished, but still hungry.
Then she did something that caught the breath in my throat. She broke into Maxine by Sharon O’Neill. A tip of the hat to one of our greats. It wasn’t just a cover. It was a love letter. And Boh nailed it. There was nothing ironic or nostalgic about it. It was pure. And it made the room feel like a pub again, the kind where we all used to stand shoulder to shoulder before life spread us out.
Dragon
Dragon followed. Or at least, a version of Dragon. And here’s where it hit me. I’ve sung their songs in more bars than I can count — across Auckland, across Europe, in dirty RSLs in Sydney, with crowds three-deep at the bar shouting every lyric.
I knew Mark Hunter. I stood beside him. I went to his funeral. And last night, I scanned that stage hoping to see someone I knew, someone I had history with. But I didn’t. Not one face.
Mark Williams, to his credit, has been with the band longer than Mark Hunter himself was and worked like the true front man he always has been – tight, polished, very very good.
He deserves his moment. But for me, Dragon wasn’t there. Where was Todd Hunter? I have heard through friends he is very unwell. I truly wish him all my love and best wishes wherever today finds him. But that actual Dragowherever quiet, echoing absence, followed me through the rest of the show like a familiar chorus missing its hook.
Not a single original member on stage, not one. It’s a cover band at its truest form. Like I was once.
Th’ Dudes
Then came Th’ Dudes. Or more accurately, Peter Urlich’s interpretation of what a Dudes tribute might be.
He opened with a line that made me gag. As my first girlfriend said… thanks for coming. It was obnoxious, tasteless and set the tone for Peter.
And then it happened. Song after song fell flat. The setlist was baffling. Obscure tracks, mid-tempo fillers. The crowd didn’t know the words. And I watched people — seasoned gig-goers, fans, friends — shift uncomfortably, looking at each other with raised eyebrows.
Do you know this one? Nah, do you?
I wanted to feel something. I wanted that Dudes magic. The summer tour, sunburnt skin, that hot pulse of a song we all sang drunk at 19. But instead, it felt like I was watching a barrister try his hand at Jay-Z karaoke on the office Christmas do. There was effort. There was sweat. But there was no soul.
Ricky Morris tried his best to lift it. His guitar work was exceptional. Sharp. Tasteful. He’s doing it for his brother Ian — and it shows.
When Walking in Light finally hit, the crowd came alive. It was like someone had taken the gag off the memory.
And then Be Mine Tonight arrived and Ricky sang it like a man possessed. For five minutes, we were back. The crowd roared. I roared. That song carried me through more heartbreaks, late-night drives and band-room arguments than I care to admit.
And in that moment, everything made sense again. Until it ended.
BUT, the most amazing part of the night, for me, was sharing it with my son. A proper Dad and Son evening out. Jack — my beautiful, big-hearted, wildly talented boy — surprised me in the best possible way. There he was, just 20 years old, singing along to nearly every Dragon and Dudes classic like he’d grown up, side-of-stage with them.
And in a way, I suppose he did. Years of road trips, blasting my playlists on the way to the bach, must have soaked into his bones. Somewhere between the gear bags and fish ‘n’ chip stops, he developed his own passionate love affair with the music that shaped me. Not because I made him. Because it got under his skin the way good music always does.
He didn’t care who was playing, or which version of the band was up there. He just sang. Loudly. Joyfully. If I’m being honest — with a voice more gifted by his mother than by me.
But God, it lit me up inside. Watching him throw himself into those songs like they were brand new — it reminded me that this music lives on, not in perfect renditions, but in hearts like his.
So thank you — to all my old friends, whether you’re still with us or long gone — for the anthems, for the stories, for the sweat and sound that shaped a generation. It’s not lost. It’s alive.
Just ask Jack — mid-chorus, letting out a full-volume Caaaahhhhhooooo! into a stranger’s ear. I winced, went to apologise, but the bloke just turned, smiled, and said, nah, all good mate, he’s just being a Kiwi pub lad.
And maybe that’s what the whole night was really about. Not perfection. Not legacy. Just fun. Youth. And pure pub vibes.
And in that, it absolutely delivered.
The show had its moments. It stumbled. It soared. It confused. It comforted. That’s what live music does. That’s what we did, back then. Last night wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And I’ll take real over polished nostalgia any day.
Was it the Biggest Pub Gig in the World? Not really. But it felt like the last great toast to something I’ve carried all my life.
A sweaty, late-night, off-key, off-beat, utterly Kiwi thank-you to the bands that shaped us, the venues that held us, and the ghosts we still sing to in the dark.
4 out of 5 messy pub carpets – 2.5 of those go to Stellar and Fur Patrol.
Would go again. Would bring my voice. Would ask one last time, was the meat raffle real?
Aaron Gascoigne
All photos by Den
Den also grabbed some shots of Goodshirt – who opened the night.
Goodshirt
Goodshirt opened, Aaron! The crowd was even smaller at that point but Rodney and co put on a fine show. And in one of your photos you can see Gareth Goodshirt joining Fur Patrol stage left for some saxophone on Lydia (not that we could hear him!)