THE HIVES // St. Luke’s & 02 Academy // 25&26.11.25

By the time you read this, I may have just recovered from this double whammy of Hives-induced euphoric excess. May being the operative word. Some experiences don’t release their grip easily.

Night One. St Luke’s.

A gig almost too visceral to process, too perfect to believe — and everyone there knew it was an “I was there” moment.

With nowhere to hide and no support act, the anticipation of what was to come was almost physical — touchable, electric. No room for unnecessary fluff, not even space on stage for the usual production you’d expect. Just raw, undiluted intention.

A step back in time: The Hives, stripped bare to the bone. Garage punk ready to rewind and explode.

Howlin’ Pelle’s opening salvo of “Everyone’s a F*ing Little Bitch and I’m Getting Sick and Tired of It” strikes hard and connects directly to the feeling of many in the room. The effect is immediate and devastating: explosive. The band so close, so dangerously accessible, you could hear the backline bleeding over the PA — raw, unfiltered, gloriously chaotic.

Pelle and Niklas combine — frantic and psyched — continually engaging, attacking, diving into the pit, repeatedly playing to and with the crowd in a communion of sweat and sound. A transcendent transference of power from stage to floor and back again in an endless, intoxicating loop.

Pelle has such a magnetic way about him that it’s impossible not to be sucked in, seduced, brought willingly onside. Humorous, humble, and yet unapologetically bombastic — a contradiction that somehow makes perfect sense in the moment. He knows how devastatingly good he and the band are, and he knows you know, and plays with it. The intensity is relentless, energising the crowd, who are, in many ways, still disbelieving.

Right now, The Hives are probably at the absolute zenith of their powers, promoting one of their best albums to date and proving — as they will gleefully, arrogantly, correctly tell you — that they are “The Best Band in the World.” Few in St Luke’s would have argued, and many walked out smiling, chatting… convinced they’d just witnessed one of the best gigs ever.

But what was the following night to bring? Could lightning strike twice?

Night Two. O2 Academy.

The previous night had caused quite a stir on social media, and as I entered the venue, a Hives crew member I was chatting to very much felt that the O2 crowd was really “up for it.” The vibe from the floor affirmed it tenfold. I never thought the euphoria of St Luke’s could be surpassed, but the collective mind at the O2 had a different plan altogether.

As the lights dimmed to total darkness, The Hives walked on, lit up by the trim on their suits. The crowd erupted into the now-familiar chant: “Here we… Here we… Here we F*ing go!” The touch paper is lit, the pin is pulled, and the place erupts. Literally erupts.

The mix of old and new songs merges seamlessly, creating a ceaseless, glorious stream of sonic assault. Old favourites like “Main Offender” and “Hate to Say I Told You So” have huge sections of the crowd pogoing, arms raised — a seething mass of connected energy and shared ecstasy.

I’ve seen some monumental punk bands at the O2, but I’ve never quite witnessed this audience reaction — this total, beautiful abandon, this collective loss of control.

“Tick Tick Boom” sees Pelle literally dividing the crowd like the Red Sea as he wanders into the throng, becoming one with the masses. Everyone involved, everyone craning their necks, standing on tiptoes, desperate not to miss a single second. I saw men losing it in fervent — maybe slightly over-the-top — adoration. Imagine the effect of the Fab Four in the early sixties, then think again. This is now. This is not retro.

The Hives cut to the pure essence of rock and roll. Loud, wild, and unforgettable.

This is pure electric zeitgeist in human form.

This is Hivesmania, and resistance is futile.