James Blunt – Spark Arena, 21 October 2025: Review

23rd October 2025

There are nights when music doesn’t just fill a room. It folds time. It stitches together versions of yourself you thought you’d left behind. Last night with James Blunt was one of those rare nights, where nostalgia met newness, and two artists, worlds apart in experience, shared a stage and a story.

Go-Jo

Before nostalgia took the stage, something new tried to bloom.

Go-Jo, the Australian Eurovision representative, stepped into the quiet like a question. It was his first-ever performance in New Zealand, and he arrived dressed like a young James Blunt who’d grown up on heartbreak Pop and synths. Cropped denim jacket, flared jeans, white socks, black shoes.

The crowd, mostly 40-plus, mostly well-dressed, mostly seated, didn’t quite know what to do with him.

They watched politely, basked in darkness, as he poured himself into the keys and into Double Down, a sombre ballad that felt like it had been written under the soft glow of a bedroom lamp at 2am. Think Lauv. Think LANY. Think vulnerability with a beat.

He danced because the music asked him to, pumping out a few Michael Jackson moves, bumping his body with every bass hit.

His voice was crisp and clear, like the first breath after rain. He tried to get the crowd to sing. They didn’t. But he kept going.

This is full circle, he said, because just last year, I was in the crowd watching this show. That moment — humble and honest — was a reminder that Go-Jo isn’t just performing. He’s living it.

Then came Mrs Hollywood, his most famous track. That’s when he stopped being an opener and became a performer. He ran across the stage, danced the set away, and owned the spotlight.

He tried to introduce his next song with a story but got interrupted. It felt like a chaotic nod to The 1975’s unpredictability.

He played a new track called Supersonic and joked, if you don’t clap, you’re gonna be arrested. The crowd chuckled, some clapped. A techno beat introduced another song, and suddenly the room felt younger, even if the people in it didn’t.

His finale, Sweet Sweet — Yum Yum, was whimsical and cinematic, like the end credits of a coming-of-age film.

He tried to get the crowd to chant it back. They didn’t. But even in quiet resistance, Go-Jo shone. He’s going to be a star — the kind that burns slow but bright.

He deserved a better crowd. But maybe that’s the point. Great artists don’t wait for the perfect audience. They perform anyway.James Blunt

Then came James Blunt, walking through the dark with an acoustic guitar and a red leather jacket, as if stepping out of a memory.

The screen behind him flickered with images — 9/11, Barack Obama, Zinedine Zidane’s headbutt, war, politics, pop culture. It was a montage of the world turning, and then the music began.

You’re Beautiful arrived early. The crowd stood like they’d been waiting for permission. When the line fucking high came around, Blunt let the crowd take it. Spark Arena became a choir. Okay, that’s the hit, he said. It’s all downhill from here. But it wasn’t. It was a gentle descent into something deeper.

He played Wiseman, tweaking the lyrics to say we’re in Auckland baby, and the crowd laughed. For Goodbye My Lover, he sat at a piano that looked like it belonged in a cathedral. The room fell silent. Reverential.

We’re here to celebrate 20 years of my first album, he said. That means I’m fucking old — and that means you’re fucking old too. He asked who was conceived during You’re Beautiful. He thanked the younger generation because everyone else will die. It was morbid, hilarious, and somehow comforting.

Then came the deep cuts — six songs not played live in 18 years. He was grateful for the chance.

He told the story behind Billy, a tale of a friend who stayed with him and eventually got booted to a Manther’s household. I’ll never listen to Billy the same again, someone whispered nearby.

No Bravery was haunting. Written during his time in the former Yugoslavia, it was backed by visuals of war-torn landscapes. It wasn’t just a song. It was a reckoning. A reflection of the times. A reminder that Blunt’s music is rooted in lived experience.

Toward the end of his debut album set, he offered a vote: hits or a new two-hour album. The crowd chose the hits. I don’t have a new album, he admitted, I don’t need one. And he was right.

He played Carry You Home, then pulled out a ukulele for Postcards, a lovely love song that made everyone stand.

Coz I Luv You was bathed in warm light, and Blunt made a lap around the floor, high-fiving fans and soaking in the energy.

Same Mistake was lit only by the glow of phone flashlights. The band left. The crowd demanded more.

Blunt returned for the encore in an All-Blacks jersey, starting with Monster, a sombre piano piece that brought tears to nearby fans. It was the most emotional moment of the night.

By the end, everyone was standing. Blunt climbed atop his piano, clapping with the crowd. I’ll see you in the next 20 years, he said. It felt like a promise, and half a joke. At 51, he’s still sharp, still funny, still tender.

This wasn’t just a concert. It was a folding of time. A reminder that music doesn’t just mark the years. It carries them.

Go-Jo was the future, trying to find his place in a room built on memory. Blunt was the past, still alive, still evolving, still connecting. One artist reaching forward. One artist reaching back.

By the end, people were half-dazed, half-exhilarated, clutching scraps of melody like souvenirs. It was imperfect, immediate, and entirely unrepeatable. The kind of night that settles in your chest and stays there. Not because it was flawless, but because it was real.

And maybe that’s what live music is for.
Not just to hear the songs.
But to feel the years between them.

Azrie Azizi