Some gigs are just performances. Others are something else entirely, experiences that pull you into another realm, where time bends, energy surges, and music becomes its own living thing.  Tiki Taane delivered the latter, and then some.

The evening began in a way only Tiki could pull off—kicking into the familiar groove of Kelis’ Milkshake (yes, all the way back to 2003), instantly sparking grins and nostalgia.

With DJ Axis having already warmed the venue like the gentle crackle of a vinyl record before the needle hits, the crowd was primed.

Tiki encouraged us to shout, chant, call out—did it matter what song it was? Not at all. We were all bellowing barrrr de bar da barrr bar de bar like our lungs depended on it. The temperature in the room rose—both literally and in spirit.

Then, from his sack of musical magic, Tiki pulled a gem. Prince’s When Doves Cry.

I hold Prince as the greatest artist of my generation, and what Tiki delivered was nothing short of reverent brilliance. This wasn’t a cover—it was a complete reimagining, deeply respectful yet wholly his own.

You could feel the wairua in it. By the time the song finished, we were about 15 minutes into the set… and only at song number two.

That’s the thing about Tiki Taane. He doesn’t simply play a song, he dives headlong into it, wrestling and coaxing its soul to the surface. He doesn’t seem to know exactly where it will go until he’s inside it, deep in its DNA.

As the looping pedal warmed up under his feet, I wondered what was coming next—then suddenly, Here Comes the Hotstepper by Ini Kamoze erupted from the speakers.

At this point my brain nearly exploded. The grooves layered, the loops built, the beats tightened. Like a musical flux capacitor charging to 88mph. The crowd’s energy poured into Tiki, and he hurled it right back at us tenfold.

Each song unfolded like a new spell cast. His eyes, his body language, told the story—he was riding the same unpredictable wave we were. A friend whispered, He’s like a magician performing tricks he’s never seen before. That was exactly it. Song after song, the energy never wavered.

Then came a turn. Tiki announced a song from 1932, his grandmother’s favourite.

He shared the deeply emotional story. When his kuia was on her deathbed, taking her final breath, he sang it to her, guiding her into the afterlife. He dedicated it to her, and to all of us who have lost someone dear. You could have heard a pin drop. In that moment, we were one body of strangers united in love and loss.

From there, the emotions swelled. He spoke of his friend Chris Faiumu (DJ Mu from Fat Freddy’s Drop) and even gave a nod to Ozzy Osbourne.

Then—damn you, Tiki—he broke into Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I sang that at my grandfather’s funeral. How did he know? Of course, he didn’t. But he understood something deeper—that songs have their own spirits, their own journeys, and that they can hold us in moments of grief as much as joy.

The night continued in a relentless weave of genius.

One moment we were in the islands with Bob Marley, the next rolling with Kings of Leon, the next back in Tiki’s own catalogue with Always on My Mind.

But for me, it wasn’t the big hits that stuck—it was the sense of pure artistic bohemia. That space I as a vocalist myself strive to touch.

By the final notes, it was clear Tiki wasn’t entirely with us in the room. He was floating in his own mystical territory—Tiki Taane Land—and we were lucky enough to be invited inside.

What we witnessed wasn’t just a one-man band. It was a one-man, lion-taming, time-bending, soul-looping, heart-breaking, mind-blowing explosion of music, magic, and mana.

Brilliant.

Aaron Gascoigne

Photography by Leonie Moreland

Tiki Taane

DJ Axis