Electric Six @ San Fran, Wellington, New Zealand. Wed 25 March 2026.
There’s a point in every Electric Six gig where you start to think: this might be the greatest song ever written. And then, very quickly, that thought escalates into ‘Electric Six might be the greatest band that ever existed.’ You consider that there might never be better music than this, so what’s the point in anyone else even trying?
All of these entirely rational conclusions arrive in your brain like a runaway steamtrain somewhere around the halfway mark of Gay Bar.
And the thing is – in that moment – it all makes perfect sense. The people of Wellington certainly believe it – selling out the original gig so quickly that Electric Six put on a second one, and nearly sold that out too.
Because only a genius could make chaos feel this composed. Only serious professionals could make something this ridiculous feel so tight. On paper, Electric Six are marketed as disco funk – which they might be, they might not. That’s the beauty of this band. But live, they’re something else entirely.
They’re heavy. They’ve got riffs purer than that bottle of spring water you just drunk.
Songs like Gay Bar, Down at McDonald’s and She’s White don’t just lurch from idea to idea – they hit hard while they’re doing it. And even when things threaten to spiral completely out of control, they never actually do. That’s the trick.
More than two decades in, this is a band that knows exactly what it’s doing. And, more importantly, still looks like it’s enjoying every second of it.
There’s no support act. No easing into the night. Just Electric Six, straight in, and straight to work.
At the centre of it all, as ever, is Dick Valentine – part frontman, part stand-up comic, part unlicensed motivational speaker. At times, he drifts into long, rambling monologues that somehow feel completely pointless and absolutely essential.
At one point he explains a plan to co-opt gig goers to meet him in a back alley and breathe into a bag so he can release that same air at a future show. At another, he shares his thoughts on age-appropriate crushes involving former Kiwi heads of state.
None of it makes sense. All of it is brilliant. And then, without explanation, the band disappear and return for the encore carrying a full baguette.
No context. Just… baguette.
Trying to work out whether this set is a greatest hits run-through or just whatever they felt like playing on the night is a pointless exercise. With 16 studio albums behind them, Electric Six could play almost anything and claim it as a fan favourite – and you’d probably believe them. What matters is that it works.
From Gay Part Part 2 to Naked Pictures Of Your Mother, this is less a carefully curated setlist and more a celebration of everything that makes the band so uniquely compelling – the hooks, the humour, the sheer unpredictability of it all. And, of course, no Electric Six gig would be complete without them playing (Who the Hell Just) Call My Phone? in between the “stop” and “continue” on Improper Dancing.
If there’s one minor gripe, it’s that the encore briefly threatens to dip when it should be building. Two songs ease the momentum just when it feels like it should be going for the throat.
But then Dance Commander arrives. And suddenly everything makes sense again. Because that’s what Electric Six do. They push things right to the edge of collapse, let it wobble for a moment, and then bring it crashing back down exactly where it needs to be.
Controlled chaos. Perfectly executed. And for a fleeting, ridiculous, completely convincing moment – the best band in the world.