The Hives in Sydney – review and photos
A Riotous Blast from the Swedish Swagger Factory
I walked out of the Enmore Theatre on Wednesday night buzzing—not from nostalgia, but from a band that’s still very much alive in their own chaos. The Hives returned to Sydney after years away and turned a cold night into something that felt like a heatwave inside four walls. Pelle Almqvist—or ‘Howlin’ Pelle’ —remains one of the few frontmen who can talk more than he sings and still hold the room. He struts, heckles, throws himself around, and somehow makes it all feel unplanned. The rest of the band—Nicholaus Arson, Vigilante Carlstroem, Chris Dangerous, and The Johan and Only—move like they’ve been doing this forever, because they have. The matching black‑and‑white suits? Still sharp. Still ridiculous. Still perfect.
A Sound That Feels Pulled From Another Era
The Hives’ sound has always been a mix of early punk bite and 1960s garage rock grit, with flashes of 50s soul swagger and a tiny touch of menace you heard in bands like MC5. True live music, blended in a way that takes you somewhere else entirely. There were moments at Enmore where the room felt less like 2025 and more like some wild circuit gig from decades ago—hips moving, hands clapping, the crowd locked into a collective groove that was as much about rhythm as it was about volume. It’s raw, it’s playful, and it feels out of time in the best way.
Gratefully, the set list was built on old favourites. Main Offender, Walk Idiot Walk, Hate to Say I Told You So—each one landed with the same punch they no doubt did twenty years ago – confirmed by the older crowd in the room whose eyes lit up as they sang every word under their breath, viscerally sensing their hearts beating out of their chests to be reunited with songs that really mean something to them. The little glimpse of their upcoming album was in Paint a Picture, which slid in effortlessly, sounding less like a curveball and more like a continuation of their noise.
For all their years, The Hives they haven’t slipped into autopilot like many have. Pelle still stops the music mid-song to demand absolute silence, only to snap the crowd back into a frenzy seconds later. Lights strobed, the floor shook. It’s a show built on small bits of theatre, but it works because the band seem to be enjoying it as much as the audience.
Most Hives songs are credited to a mystery Randy Fitzsimmons, the mysterious figure said to have discovered the band, written their music, and then disappeared. The name has been on every record since the ’90s, and over time it’s become the backbone of their self‑made legend. Their last album even claimed to unearth Randy’s grave, complete with demo tapes and suits buried inside. It’s absurd, but The Hives don’t ask you to believe the myth—they just let it hang there, another layer of theatre wrapped around the noise. Better to leave it untouched. You don’t go to a Hives gig to see what’s changed. You go because they’ve stayed the same in the right ways.
The Takeaway
Twenty‑five years on from Veni Vidi Vicious, The Hives play like a band who know exactly what they’re good at and see no reason to mess with it. There’s a confidence in that—not the swagger of proving they’re the best, but the ease of a band who’ve survived long enough to stop caring about proving anything. Paint a Picture hints at new tricks, but the night was mostly about the old ones still working. Maybe that’s the point: not everything has to change to stay alive.
Review by Chloe Davis-Powell. Photos by Adam Davis-Powell.
