CHROMAKOPIA. Tyler, The Creator Turns Spark Arena into a One-Man Universe.
I have the privilege of reviewing Tyler, The Creator – CHROMAKOPIA World Tour at Spark Arena, and when I first received this news, I felt the sudden urge to stand up in a room full of like-minded individuals and solemnly declare hi, my name is Aaron, and I don’t know who Tyler, the Creator is.
It’s been a very long time since my last meeting of Music-Ignorantrolics Anonymous. There I was, staring down the barrel of a review only days away, without a single song, melodic line, or album to pull from the dusty shelves of my medial prefrontal cortex. You know that part of the brain that’s supposed to store all our important musical references. Nothing.
Luckily, I have a beautiful friend with a 13-year-old son, Max Simeon. He and his mother had been talking about this show for months, so I sat down with Max for a crash course—and what I absorbed from him was a complete revelation.
Max spoke about Tyler with reverence, reminding me that he isn’t just a Rapper but a multi-disciplinary creative force. Rapper, record producer, filmmaker, actor, fashion designer, and two-time Grammy winner.
He plays me track after track—ballads and melodic interludes that sound like the symphonic love child of Michael Jackson. A vocal range that rises and falls like a falsetto rollercoaster, rap verses scraped straight from the sidewalks of Atlanta, and neo-Soul and R&B that drips with Motown’s elegance and grit.
Above all, Max explains, Tyler is a storyteller. Every album plays out like a novel. Characters, alter egos, third-person narratives, raw confessions.
His themes move across trauma, mental health, addiction, love, abandonment. Goblin and Wolf even frame the whole experience as therapy sessions. Bleak, unsettling, strangely magnetic.
By the time Max is finished, I know I’m not just going to a concert—I’m stepping into the internal universe of a fearless artist.
The crowd outside Spark Arena tells me I’ve stepped into a movement. It is uniquely diverse—eight-year-olds standing beside eighty-year-old grandmothers. People in banana costumes, green ties and Hawaiian shirts paying homage in every direction.
The merchandise queues are already excessive, and the temperature inside the arena is borderline tropical. Sweat rolls across the entire floor as 12,000 people wait for the arrival of one man. The songwriter, the poet, the fashion icon.
I catch the end of Lil Yachty’s support set, and he’s done a fine job warming the room.
He finishes on Sabado En Marbella, thanks Auckland for turning up, and gently reminds us that the most important thing we can do tomorrow is spread love, peace and positivity, because there’s far too much hate in the world.
He walks off to a wave of affection and approval.
Then the 30-minute wait begins. More people file in. The hum rises. Security at the front of the minimalistic T-shaped stage start handing bottles of water over the barricade to desperate fans packed thirty-deep along the catwalk.
The lights go dead. The roar that follows is like nothing I’ve heard in a live setting—violent, overwhelming, but somehow welcoming.
Feet stamp. Voices rise. CHROMAKOPIA, CHROMAKOPIA, CHROMAKOPIA! Faster, louder, harder— BANG—there he is.
Pyrotechnics, flares, smoke cannons—and Tyler is already mid-stride into St. Chroma, segueing seamlessly into The Rah Ta Ta.
He’s dressed head-to-toe in a bright yellow suit, matching leather cap, and square-framed glasses. It’s bold, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect.
What follows is a masterclass. Giant LED screens track his every move while playing fragmented narrative videos from across the discography.
Noid, Darling, Sticky. Each one raises the temperature and the noise to near-unbearable levels. Every person in the room knows every word. They scream them like their lives depend on it. It’s clear that this crowd isn’t just here for entertainment. These are believers.
The most astonishing part is how Tyler manipulates the room. He changes the collective mood at will. From furious, body-shaking Rap to soft spoken-word reflection, often within the same song.
At one point, it feels like we’re at a poetic one-man Broadway show. Three soft white spotlights fall on him as he quietly recites Are We Still Friends? Every word delivered with grace and vulnerability.
Then—BANG—we’re back into EARFQUAKE. The entire building shakes. The bass bins lining the stage, the multiple flown line arrays (more than most full bands use in a stadium) all combine to deliver the loudest mix I’ve ever experienced. Somehow it works. It’s deliberately physical. Your head rattles and your chest vibrates.
Mid-set, he finally speaks. My name is Tyler, The Creator—for all of those who don’t know who the f**k I am. I’m from Los Angeles, California—that’s a far, far place away. Some of y’all wear masks every day… scared of your parents, scared of your friends. You don’t know how to be 100% yourself… so you wear a mask. I wrote a song about that.
Then he launches into IFHY. Love, hate, resentment, heartbreak. Every line ricochets around the walls as 12,000 people sing it word for word.
He pivots. If y’all don’t mind, I’m going into some old records. The roof nearly comes off.
EARFQUAKE detonates again. He’s still in that bright yellow suit, drenched in sweat, no towel or water bottle in sight.
Are We Still Friends? returns, this time stretched out like a ballet, Tyler gliding across the front stage with graceful but ferocious movements.
By the final song, he looks exhausted—worn down, almost emptied out—but still completely in control.
Hope You Find Your Way Home (as Max later told me, a tribute about his mother and everything she did to help him become who he is) becomes a closing statement of gratitude, both from artist to crowd and crowd to artist.
After the show in a taxi – I ring and ask Max to sum it up better than I ever could.
Tyler brought an amazing stage presence, he says. He really showed his love and passion for his music, career and craft, that’s what we all follow and love.
And when I ask what the night meant to him, he thinks for a second, smiles, and simply says, “I’m just so grateful my mum could take me. I truly loved it. Thanks Mum. Great answer Max.
And as for me? I walked into Spark Arena completely blind—no nostalgic attachment, no catalogue buried in my memory, no emotional bias—and I walked out completely converted.
Tyler, The Creator didn’t just perform a concert. He built a world, invited 12,000 people into it, and somehow made every single one of us feel seen. It was loud, raw, beautiful, poetic, chaotic, precise and deeply human.
If this is what a modern storyteller looks like, then the next meeting of Music-Ignorantrolics Anonymous is going to be a short one—because I’ve just found my way home too.
And for that, I owe a massive thank-you to Max Simeon for opening the door and showing me the way in.
Aaron Gascoigne
Photo credit Luis “Panch” Perez