Billie Marten was back in Auckland a year on from her debut and she’d brought a new record with her, Dog Eared, plus a growing confidence that quietly filled the room long before the first chord rang out.
Before the lights went down at the Powerstation, there was already a sense that this wasn’t going to be a loud night. Not the shouty kind, anyway. More the kind where people lean forward without realising, where conversations soften mid-sentence, where the room agrees, collectively, to listen.
It also happened to kick off what is shaping up to be one of those ridiculous weeks on the local gig calendar. Lorde, Ethel Cain, and now this. You could feel it in the line outside. A certain buzz, sure, but also a calm. The kind you get when you know the night ahead is going to ask something of you emotionally, not physically.
There was no rush. No bravado. Just a gentle anticipation humming under the surface.
Maple Glider
Early arrivals were rewarded with something special. Melbourne-based artist Maple Glider, real name Tori Zietsch, walked on stage to a room that was already primed to pay attention. And pay attention they did. The chatter fell away almost instantly, replaced by that rare kind of silence that feels generous rather than awkward.
Stripped back to just voice and guitar, Zietsch didn’t need much else. Her opener Mama It’s Christmas set the tone, soothing and slightly hypnotic, easing the crowd into her world with a confidence that felt hard-earned. There’s a clarity to her songwriting that sneaks up on you. Clever lines, delivered without fuss, landing harder because of it.
Some solo sets feel like placeholders. This wasn’t one of them.
Each song held its own weight. Don’t Kiss Me, introduced as a song about consent, was emotionally pointed without ever tipping into sermon territory. Her voice carried it, expressive and driven, stretching into moments that felt half harmony, half confession.
Later, during Swimming, it became clear just how physically invested she is in her performance. Eyes closed, body swaying, guitar hugged close. It didn’t feel like theatre. It felt necessary.
Between songs, Zietsch was unapologetically herself. Thinking out loud. Sharing backstories. One song about an ex nicknamed Peter Pan. Another written during a panic attack, when all she wanted was the warmth of family. It was rambling in the best way. Human. Slightly chaotic. Honest.
A raw, unexpectedly tender cover of You’re Still the One closed her set, delivered with just an acoustic guitar and a voice that seemed to glow under the lights. It earned every bit of applause it received.
And then came the spoiler. Zietsch returned later in the night to join Billie Marten on stage, chatting about the origin of the name Maple Glider. Sugar gliders. Maple syrup. Her favourite things. Silly, yes. Also, weirdly perfect.
She exited to rapturous praise after Good Thing, a crowd favourite that felt like a promise more than a farewell. If you didn’t know her walking in, you definitely did walking out.
Billie Marten
This was not a night of drama. No big gestures. No forced climaxes. Instead, it was a masterclass in restraint, delivered by a songwriter who understands exactly when to step forward and when to step back.
Billie Marten took the stage to a roar that quickly softened into something more intimate. Grinning, relaxed, she jumped straight into Feeling, the opening track from Dog Eared, and immediately scooped the audience up with her. The singalong came fast, catching her slightly off guard, and it wouldn’t be the last time.
At 26, Marten already carries herself like a seasoned performer. There’s a steadiness there. A sense that she knows what her songs need and refuses to overcook them. Swapping between electric and acoustic guitars, she led the band confidently, her voice remaining the focal point throughout. Clear, warm, unforced.
The room followed her lead.
It might have been the quietest crowd I’ve ever heard at the Powerstation. Not out of disinterest. Quite the opposite. This was reverent silence. The kind that exists so every crisp guitar strum and melodic shift can land exactly where it’s meant to. The band later described the crowd, and New Zealand as a whole, as gentle but loving. That pretty much summed it up.
Understated became the word of the night. Each song carried a quiet emotional pull, subtle but persistent. There were flourishes, though, if you listened closely. The walking basslines of Tommy Heap. The delicate but precise drum fills from Casper Miles. Nothing flashy. Just small rewards for attentive ears.
And Miles, honestly, was a joy to watch. He handled the kit with a lightness that bordered on playful, sticks swinging between his fingers with effortless control. It was technical without ever feeling showy, each beat serving the song rather than competing with it.
Midway through Mice, a familiar drum intro drew a laugh from Marten, who joked that it could be the start of almost any song. Does anyone else hear Strange and Beautiful by Aqualung? she asked. Silence. She grinned. Billie Marten is a niche artist, and she knows it. Her references even more so.
Between songs, her dry, hushed humour landed well. She spoke fondly of Auckland, fielding half-serious heckles begging her to stay. She said she would. Everyone laughed, hopeful. She talked about filming a music video on Muriwai Beach with a horse named Titan, about working with local photographers like Frances Carter, about her love for The Piano and Jane Campion’s haunting score. A shout-out to a local author slipped in there too. It all felt sincere. Unscripted.
Reflecting on her 2019 release Feeding Seahorses by Hand, she admitted she was having a terrible time when writing it, before easing into Cartoon People. The song’s melancholic beauty settled over the room, joined by others from the same era that carried a similar introspective weight.
One of the night’s standout moments came with a three-part, country-leaning harmony featuring Maple Glider and Heap. It was brief, soft, and absolutely gorgeous. The kind of moment that only works because the room trusts the artist enough to go there.
Then came Leap Year. Marten stepped forward, guitar in hand, and showed off her dexterous fingerpicking, briefly rising onto her toes as she nailed a run of harmonics. The ovation was immediate and deserved. It was electric, not because it was loud, but because it felt earned.
By the time she closed with Swing, there was a sense of completeness in the room. Not exhaustion. Satisfaction.
The Powerstation wasn’t technically full. The balcony stayed closed. People had space to breathe. But the floor was packed with attention, and that counts for more. Compared to the phone-filled chaos of Laneway the week before, this felt almost radical. A crowd that listened. That respected the songs. That understood the etiquette of being present.
Girls in their mid-twenties stood silently, whisper-singing lyrics back. A few boyfriends looked mildly overwhelmed. Everyone else hung onto every word.
Billie Marten has grown since her last visit. Not just into bigger rooms, but into herself. Her conversations flowed more easily. Her presence felt settled. Confident without being loud about it.
This was the last stop on her tour, and it showed in the warmth exchanged between artist and audience. No rush. No gloss. Just well-written songs, beautifully played, by someone who deserves to be heard.
It was a quiet night for Billie Marten at the Powerstation. And it was perfect.
Azrie Azizi
Photography by Michael Jeong
Billie Marten
Maple Glider
