All Rise for the Court of Maximum Swagger: The Hives Declare Rock ‘n’ Roll a Living Entity.

The Hives at Enmore Theatre, Sydney – July 23, 2025

Let’s get one thing straight: The Hives don’t do gigs. They hold court, conduct sonic exorcisms, and make entire venues feel like they’ve been strapped to a rocket fuelled by sweat, ego, and six-string distortion.

Tonight at Sydney’s Enmore Theatre, the Swedish sovereigns of garage rock didn’t just perform - they unleashed a full-blown coup d'état against mediocrity. What ensued was part punk sermon, part glam spectacle, and all swagger. And in case there was any doubt: yes, The Hives are still that band - the ones who’ll steal your breath, your heart, and probably your girlfriend’s attention, all before the second chorus.

They strutted onstage dressed like dandy desperadoes from a Tarantino-meets-Monocle fever dream - fringed tuxedo suits, high-collared bravado, and an overwhelming sense that they knew exactly how much cooler they were than everyone else in the room. And you know what? Fair enough.

The opening notes barely had time to vibrate through the air before the Enmore exploded into a frenzied love-in. Bodies bounced, beer splashed, and voices howled in a mass exorcism of 9-to-5 malaise. The crowd was there for worship, and The Hives were more than willing to play high priests of holy racket.

Each song was fired like a confetti cannon laced with chaos: tight, fast, and delivered with the surgical arrogance of a band that’s been doing this longer (and better) than most Spotify algorithms have been alive. The hits - “Main Offender,” “Hate to Say I Told You So,” “Tick Tick Boom” - came out swinging with the kind of muscle that makes you remember what it felt like to fall in love with a power chord.

The new tracks? Oh, they didn’t slot in - they slammed down like court summonses from the Ministry of Mayhem. The Hives aren’t content to coast on their legacy. They’re too busy forging it in real-time, grinning like anarchists with a setlist.

May Contain Theatrics, Swagger, and Moderate Acts of Hijacking.

Frontman Pelle Almqvist remains a one-man riot in a tailcoat - equal parts punk demigod, vaudeville troublemaker, and that drama class overachiever who took one Ramones song too seriously and never quite came back.

He’s the kind of frontman who doesn’t just command the stage - he kidnaps it, ransoms it for maximum chaos, and leaves it begging for more. A menace to front-row hecklers and a fever dream for hype men everywhere, Almqvist doesn’t perform at you - he detonates through you. Scaling barricades like a glam-rock Evel Knievel, hijacking cameras with the finesse of a tabloid-dodging royal, and orchestrating the audience with the precision of a conductor on a sugar bender, he made one thing hilariously, gloriously clear: this wasn’t a show. This was Pelle's hostile takeover.

Guitarist Nicholaus Arson, meanwhile, shredded with the precision of a brain surgeon who’s had one too many espresso martinis. The rest of the band - all lean muscle, tight timing, and riotous rhythm - delivered a sound so taut and textured it could sandblast a cathedral.

By the encore, the Enmore was a glorious mess - ears ringing, sweat glistening, faces aching from the kind of grinning only rock-induced euphoria can provide.

Phones were forgotten. Reality suspended. For over one blazing hour and change, the only thing that mattered was being exactly where we were: front row at the last great rock ‘n’ roll circus still setting tents.

The verdict? The Hives aren’t just surviving - they’re thriving on their own laws of gravity, vanity, and volume. In a world overrun by curated feeds and synthetic cool, their raw, riotous, rule-breaking energy feels like a thunderbolt to the soul.

Long live the monarchy of mayhem. All rise - The Hives have entered the building.

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Words by AW.

Photo courtesy of AW.