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Musical Monday 2026/05/11 — Te Ahi Kai Pō

I’m not someone who casually scrolls the internet. My searches are usually very specific, and I tend to follow threads by digging deeper rather than letting algorithms decide what I should see. Most of the time I browse anonymously, partly to avoid being profiled, but mostly to avoid being fed the kind of “confirmation bias” content that platforms love to serve.

But every now and then, it’s nice to let the guard down and wander into something familiar. So I’ll log into a YouTube account and let the platform offer up a bit of “rest and recreation”. Often that means New Zealand music — a comfort zone, a grounding place.

It was on one of those occasions that I stumbled across a video titled “AMERICAN REACTS TO | Te Ahi Kai Pō — Live at the Auckland Town Hall with the APO and Ngā Tūmanako.” What caught my attention wasn’t just the title, but the fact that there were multiple reaction videos to the same performance. That alone told me something was going on.

Even through the interruptions of the American reviewers, the waiata (song, but carrying cultural and emotional meaning) itself was unmistakably powerful. But what struck me most was the emotional response of the reviewers. Every one of them — without understanding the words, without knowing the story — reacted with a kind of raw, unfiltered emotion. Something in the performance reached them directly, bypassing language entirely.

So of course I had to go and find the actual performance of Te Ahi Kai Pō.

Unlike the Americans, I knew a little of the history behind the waiata. My knowledge of te Reo Māori is very limited, so the kupu (words, lyrics, or poetic language) themselves didn’t guide me much. But the emotional pull of the performance was unavoidable. It drew me in — not just to the music, but to the story behind it, and to the perspective of those who suffered the most.

And as with so many tragedies Māori endured under colonialism, the emotional landscape is familiar: suffering, loss, sadness — but not hatred. That absence of hatred is almost heartbreaking in itself. A seeking of justice, but not revenge. If only the rest of the world could hold grief with such dignity.

Introducing the waiata itself — Te Ahi Kai Pō

Te Ahi Kai Pō is not a song you simply “listen” to. It’s a waiata that carries history, grief, and memory in a way that bypasses the analytical mind and goes straight to the emotional core. Even the title signals this: the fire that consumes the night, or more poetically, the fire that burns through darkness. It’s a metaphor for endurance — the kind of inner flame that remains when everything else has been taken.

The waiata was written by Ria Hall, a daughter of Tauranga Moana, whose people lived through the events that inspired it. The story behind the song is the Battle of Te Ranga in 1864 — a retaliatory attack that followed the Māori victory at Gate Pā. At Te Ranga, many Māori were killed while still digging their defensive trenches. The loss was sudden, devastating, and left a wound that has echoed through generations.

But Te Ahi Kai Pō is not a song of hatred. It is a song of lament, memory, and resolve.

It holds grief with dignity. It names loss without surrendering to bitterness. It carries the emotional truth of a people who endured violence yet refused to let that violence define them.

That is the emotional landscape of the waiata — and it’s why people who don’t understand a single word still feel its weight. The kupu are deeply rooted in Māori metaphor, but the feeling is universal: the ache of loss, the strength of remembrance, the fire that refuses to go out.

Ria Hall’s original version — the source of the flame

Before Te Ahi Kai Pō became the sweeping, ceremonial performance that has captured so many hearts, it began as something far more intimate. Ria Hall wrote the waiata as part of her album Rules of Engagement, a project grounded in Tauranga Moana history and the emotional legacy of the New Zealand Wars. This is not abstract history for her — it is whakapapa (genealogy, lineage, relational identity), carried in her bones.

Her version of Te Ahi Kai Pō feels like a lament sung directly into the land. The arrangement is sparse, almost austere, leaving space for the kupu to breathe. There is no orchestra, no massed voices, no dramatic swell. Instead, there is a sense of standing on the whenua (land, but also placenta; the place one belongs) itself, speaking to the ancestors who fell there.

The official music video deepens this feeling. Filmed at Ihumātao, a site of dispossession and resistance, it connects past and present in a way that is both subtle and unmistakable. The imagery is quiet, contemplative — a reminder that grief does not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it sits in the soil, in the stones, in the silence.

Listening to Hall’s version after the reaction videos is like stepping into the heart of the waiata before it was expanded into ceremony. It is the emotional blueprint — the first spark of the fire that later performances would carry into the world.

Below is the official music video, which deserves to be experienced on its own terms before we move to the larger, collective performance that follows.

Ria Hall — Te Ahi Kai Pō (Official Music Video)

The Teeks / APO / Ngā Tūmanako performance — the waiata expanded into ceremony

If Ria Hall’s version of Te Ahi Kai Pō feels like a lament sung directly into the whenua, the performance by Teeks, the Auckland Philharmonia Orchestra, and Ngā Tūmanako feels like that lament rising into the rafters of the Town Hall and out into the world. It is the same kupu, the same grief, the same fire — but carried by many voices instead of one.

What struck me first, watching those reaction videos, was how deeply this performance reached people who had no knowledge of the language or the history. Something in the way Teeks holds the opening notes — quiet, steady, almost like a karakia — sets the emotional tone before a single word is understood. The orchestra enters not as decoration but as breath, widening the space around the voice. And when Ngā Tūmanako join him, the waiata shifts from personal lament to collective remembrance.

This is where the emotional power lies. The performance becomes a kind of ceremony — not a re‑enactment of history, but a living act of memory. The grief of Te Ranga is not simply told; it is felt. And yet, as with so many Māori responses to historical trauma, the feeling is not hatred. It is dignity. It is sorrow held with strength. It is the fire that refuses to be extinguished.

The arrangement itself mirrors this emotional arc. It begins in stillness, opens into lament, rises into something close to defiance, and then settles into a quiet, steady resolve. Even without understanding the kupu, the shape of the performance tells the story.

This is the version that drew me in — the one that made me want to understand the waiata more deeply, and the one I’ll explore in the next section through a movement‑by‑movement interpretive reading.

Below is the performance that has moved so many people around the world, and which continues to resonate long after the final note fades.

Teeks — Te Ahi Kai Pō (Live with the APO and Ngā Tūmanako)

An interpretive reading — following the emotional arc rather than the literal words

Before stepping into the performance itself, it’s worth saying why I’m offering an interpretive reading rather than a direct translation of the lyrics. Waiata Māori often carry meaning through metaphor, imagery, and emotional movement rather than through the linear, noun‑heavy structure English expects. A literal translation can flatten that richness, stripping away the wairua (spirit, essence, emotional and spiritual presence) that gives the waiata its power.

So instead of translating line by line, what follows is a section‑by‑section description of what the waiata does — the emotional and symbolic work each movement performs in the Teeks / APO / Ngā Tūmanako performance. This approach, I think, does more justice to the depth of the piece.

The quiet invocation — Teeks alone, the orchestra barely breathing

Theme: Calling the dead, acknowledging the wound

The performance opens in stillness. Teeks’ voice enters almost like a karanga (ceremonial call of welcome or remembrance) — not formally, but in emotional function. It’s a call across generations, across the space between the living and the dead. The orchestra holds its breath. Ngā Tūmanako remain silent. It is one voice speaking into darkness.

This opening movement invites the ancestors into the room and prepares the listener for what must be remembered.

The lament — the kupu of grief, the land stained, the lives cut down

Theme: The cost of Te Ranga, the ache of intergenerational trauma

When the strings first swell, the waiata shifts from invocation to lament. This is where the kupu speak of lives lost, the land marked by blood, the bewilderment of sudden grief. Teeks carries the sorrow without dramatics — a quiet, steady ache.

The orchestra deepens the lament, widening the emotional space. It feels as though the whenua itself is remembering.

The rising — Ngā Tūmanako enter, the fire builds, the lament becomes resolve

Theme: From grief to strength, from darkness to fire

This is the turning point. When Ngā Tūmanako join Teeks, the waiata becomes collective. The grief is no longer one person’s burden — it is shared, held, lifted. The imagery of fire becomes active here: not destruction, but the fire that burns away darkness, the fire that keeps memory alive.

The orchestra rises with them. The lament becomes resolve.

The final movement — the long, sustained release into light

Theme: Continuity, collective strength, the fire that remains

The closing movement is where something profound happens — something easy to feel but harder to articulate.

Teeks becomes silent — and that silence is a cultural gesture

In Māori performance tradition, the solo voice often opens the emotional space, but the collective voice completes it. When Teeks steps back and becomes silent, he is not withdrawing; he is handing the story back to the people. It signals:

  • the grief is not his alone
  • the memory belongs to the collective
  • the final word rests with the community, not the soloist

This is why his silence feels powerful rather than empty.

Ngā Tūmanako carry the ending — shifting from harmony into haka‑energy

As Teeks falls silent, Ngā Tūmanako take the waiata forward. Their voices begin in harmony, then gradually become more grounded, rhythmic, and percussive. The transition is almost imperceptible — one moment they are singing, the next they are moving with the energy of haka (posture dance expressing collective strength and emotion), even if not performing a formal haka.

This shift does something essential:

  • it lifts the lament into collective strength
  • it transforms sorrow into continuity
  • it asserts that the story does not end in darkness
  • it affirms that the people remain

The orchestra opens into a wide, spacious sound, not triumphant but resolute. The waiata ends not with closure, but with carried memory — the fire still burning, held now by many voices.

Historical context — the grief behind the waiata

To understand the emotional weight of Te Ahi Kai Pō, it helps to know the history that sits beneath it. The waiata draws on events from 1864, during the New Zealand Wars, when British and colonial forces invaded the lands of Tauranga Moana. Two battles in particular form the backdrop: Pukehinahina (Gate Pā) and Te Ranga.

Gate Pā is remembered for a remarkable Māori victory. Outnumbered and heavily shelled, the defenders held their ground and repelled the assault. But the victory was short‑lived. A few weeks later, at Te Ranga, many Māori were caught mid‑digging as they worked to build new defensive trenches. The attack was sudden and overwhelming. Dozens were killed where they stood, including rangatira (chief, leader, person of mana) whose loss was felt for generations.

For Tauranga Moana, Te Ranga was not just a military defeat — it was a deep wound, a moment of grief that settled into the land itself. Families lost fathers, sons, uncles, leaders. The trauma did not end with the battle; it continued through the confiscation of land and the long shadow of dispossession.

And yet, as with so many Māori responses to historical violence, the emotional legacy is not hatred. It is sorrow, dignity, and a determination to remember. Te Ahi Kai Pō carries that memory — not as a call for revenge, but as a way of keeping the fire of truth and justice alive.

This is the context in which the waiata lives. It is not a retelling of the battle. It is a lament for the lives lost, and a reminder that their memory endures.

Closing reflection — the fire that remains

Listening to these two versions of Te Ahi Kai Pō side by side feels a little like walking the same path twice: once in silence, and once in ceremony. Ria Hall’s original version is the quiet beginning — a lament sung into the whenua, intimate and unadorned. The Teeks / APO / Ngā Tūmanako performance takes that same lament and lifts it into collective remembrance, allowing the grief to rise, expand, and finally settle into the strength of many voices.

What moves me most is that both versions carry the same emotional truth: sorrow without hatred, memory without bitterness, fire without destruction. In a world that so often responds to harm with more harm, there is something profoundly humane in the way this waiata holds grief. It does not deny the pain of the past, nor does it soften it. Instead, it carries that pain with dignity — acknowledging what was lost while refusing to let darkness have the final word.

And perhaps that is why people around the world respond so strongly to this performance, even without understanding the kupu. The emotional arc is unmistakable: a single voice calling into the night, a lament rising from the land, a fire building in the collective breath, and finally the voices of Ngā Tūmanako carrying the story forward. It ends not with closure, but with continuity — the fire still burning, held now by the people.

For me, that is the heart of Te Ahi Kai Pō: a reminder that memory is a living thing, carried not only in words but in voices, in breath, in the way a community chooses to remember its dead. The night may be long, but the fire remains.

A note about the lyrics

The kupu of Te Ahi Kai Pō are deeply rooted in Māori metaphor and imagery, and they carry layers of meaning that don’t always survive a literal translation. For that reason, I haven’t reproduced the full lyrics here. They belong to the artists and to the communities whose history the waiata speaks from.

If you’re curious about the words themselves, I encourage you to listen closely to the performances above. The emotional arc — the invocation, the lament, the rising fire, and the final collective strength — communicates far more than an English translation ever could. The waiata’s power lies not only in what the words say, but in how they are carried: in voice, in breath, in harmony, in the shift from solo lament to collective resolve.

The kupu live most fully in the performances themselves.


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Musical Monday (2026/05/04) – Poi E

It’s been quite some time since I last wrote a Musical Monday post, and it feels right to return with a song that has never really left me. Some songs fade in and out of memory, but others settle into the background of our lives, becoming part of the landscape. Poi E is one of those songs for me — so familiar that I was convinced I must have written about it already. But a search through my blog and even my spreadsheet proved otherwise. Perhaps that says something about how deeply this song sits in my sense of Aotearoa. It feels like it has always been there.

When Poi E burst onto the scene in 1984, it did something no song had done before. Sung entirely in Te Reo Māori, it climbed the charts without the usual radio support, carried instead by community enthusiasm, word of mouth, and sheer infectious joy. It became the first fully Te Reo song to reach number one in the New Zealand charts — and the first to break into the Top 20 at all. For a language that had been pushed to the margins for generations, that was nothing short of remarkable.

But the chart history, impressive as it is, doesn’t quite capture the feeling of hearing it for the first time.

I remember that moment vividly. The beat, the energy, the unmistakable sound of Te Reo — not in a traditional action song, not in a formal setting, but right there in a pop track. It felt new. It felt bold. And it felt heart‑warming in a way I wasn’t expecting. My knowledge of Te Reo was (and still is) almost non‑existent, yet I felt a surge of pride. A sense of finally. A sense that perhaps this was the beginning of something — a shift, a recognition, an appreciation long overdue.

In hindsight, my optimism was a little premature. Cultural tides don’t turn overnight. But there’s no doubt in my mind that Poi E helped start the ball rolling. It opened a door that had been firmly shut. And once a door is open, even a crack, the light gets in.

Behind the song is a story as compelling as the music itself. Dalvanius Prime, returning home from overseas, teamed up with the visionary Ngoi Pēwhairangi to create something that blended tradition with modernity in a way no one had attempted before. The Pātea Māori Club stepped forward at a time when their community was reeling from the closure of the freezing works, and together they produced a song that was not just catchy, but culturally defiant, joyful, and utterly original.

One of the things that makes Poi E so compelling is that its meaning isn’t carried by literal sentences in the way English expects. Te Reo Māori is wonderfully adapted to expressing ideas through movement, imagery, relationship, and metaphor, rather than through the linear, noun‑heavy structure English tends to favour. You don’t so much “translate” a waiata like this as you follow the imagery and feel what it’s doing.

The song unfolds in sections, each with its own emotional and symbolic work.

The opening lines are about setting the rhythm — waking the poi, establishing the connection between performer and poi. It’s an invitation: let’s begin, move with me, find the beat. From the very first moment, the relationship is central.

Then comes the movement imagery: the poi spinning, swaying, circling, darting like a tīwaiwaka (fantail). The poi becomes lively, curious, playful — almost a creature in its own right. It’s a celebration of physical expression and the joy of movement, and it’s where the song’s visual poetry really shines.

But the heart of the song — the part that struck me so strongly even on first hearing — is the section where the performer calls the poi close. In English, the lines can sound romantic, but in Māori they express connection, unity, and shared identity. The poi becomes a companion, something to stay close, to embrace, to bind together. It’s about belonging — to the dance, to the tradition, to the culture. This is where the emotional weight sits, and it’s why the song resonates so deeply.

The closing lines reaffirm that bond. They return to the sense of closeness and shared movement, ending on a note that is affectionate, confident, and joyful. The poi and performer are now fully in sync — a single expression of culture and identity.

The sound still makes me smile. The fusion of kapa haka rhythms, 1980s synth pop, breakdance influences, and unmistakable Māori vocal lines shouldn’t work — and yet it does, gloriously. It’s a toe‑tapper, a mood‑lifter, and a reminder that identity can be celebrated with both pride and playfulness.

Decades later, Poi E continues to find new audiences. It resurfaces every few years — in films, in dance videos, in school halls — and each time it feels as fresh as ever. That’s the mark of a song that isn’t just music, but a moment in our cultural story.

So for this return to Musical Monday, I can’t think of a better choice. Poi E is joyful, meaningful, and proudly ours. And for me, it still carries that first spark of warmth and pride — the feeling that something important was beginning.

I’ll try not to leave it quite so long before the next Musical Monday.

Poi E – Patea Maori Club

Patua taku poi patua kia rite
Pa-para patua taku Poi E

E rere rā e taku poi porotiti
Tītahataha rā
Whakararuraru e
Porotakataka rā
Poro hurihuri mai
Rite tonu ki te tīwaiwaka e

Ka parepare rā
Pīoioi rā
Whakahekeheke e
Kia korikori e
Piki whakarunga rā
Mā muinga mai rā
Taku poi porotiti, taku poi e

Poi e, whakataka mai
Poi e, kaua he rerekē
Poi e, kia piri mai ki a au
Poi e, ka awhi mai rā
Poi e, tāpekatia mai
Poi e, o tāua aroha
Poi e, Paiheretia rā
Poi, taku poi e


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Musical Monday (2025/04/21) – Down in Splendour

Until very recently, “Down in Splendour” puzzled me as I was at a loss to understand its meaning. It’s a song that, much like many tracks in the Dunedin sound genre, revels in atmosphere and evocative imagery, but I mistakenly looked for the delivery of a neatly packaged narrative. Now I know better. Written by Andrew Brough for Straitjacket Fits during their Melt album period, it isn’t primarily about romantic love in the conventional sense. Instead, its lyrics offer a series of vivid, somewhat enigmatic snapshots that invite multiple interpretations rather than spelling out a single, clear meaning.

For people like me, who experience the world with heightened sensory perception, the ambiguous lyrics and experimental soundscapes can evoke a palette of emotions that feels deeply personal. The track’s swirling textures and subtle cues seem designed to let individual interpretations take centre stage: rather than spelling out a story of lost or unfulfilled love, it becomes a canvas for nostalgia, reflective mood, and the acknowledgement that sometimes the beauty of music lies in its power to simply be felt. This open-ended quality mirrors my shift from seeking a concrete meaning to embracing the song as an experience etched in my memories.

The lyrics—lines like “Hey down in splendour, join the slide” and references to the seashore and tides—evoke a natural, almost elemental energy. For some, these images suggest the inexorable pull of change, the inevitability of loss, or the bittersweet beauty in surrendering to life’s flow. The song’s language is more metaphorical than literal. This sense of letting go, of being swept up into something both beautiful and transient, might be read as a commentary on the fleeting nature of existence or the process of transformation—a kind of emotional or even spiritual passage rather than a love story per se.

For anyone who connects with music on an emotional or sensory level—as I do—the haunting, wistful quality of the melody and the atmospheric arrangement can be as compelling as the words. The interplay between the stark imagery and the lush, sometimes melancholic musical backdrop is part of what makes the Dunedin sound so distinctive. It’s a genre that often leaves much up to your personal interpretation, allowing each listener to fill in the gaps with their own experiences and emotions.

There isn’t a definitive statement from the band about an exact “meaning” behind Down in Splendour, and that ambiguity is likely intentional. Andrew Brough’s writing, with its poetic liberty, was never meant to provide a step-by-step guide to the human condition. Instead, it offers a canvas—a series of hints, moods, and impressions—that encourages a personal dialogue with the music. This open-endedness means that while the track might not articulate a story of romantic love lost or found, it still carries a powerful emotional resonance that many find unforgettable.

It’s perfectly natural, especially if you approach music from a sensory or non-literal perspective, as I tend to do, to connect with the song primarily through its musical beauty and evocative soundscapes. In that way, Down in Splendour becomes not just about deciphering lyrics but about experiencing that haunting beauty—the interplay of melancholy, mystery, and an almost meditative quality.

This characteristic ambiguity is a hallmark of the Dunedin sound: leaving spaces in the narrative for listeners to project their own feelings and experiences. So rather than feeling like a puzzle to be solved, it can be seen as an invitation to simply feel and reflect. What, dear reader, do you think?

Down In Splendour

Hey, down in splendour
Join the slide
Standing on the seashore
And the tide
Comes rolling through your eyes
You've got no place to go
Comes rolling through your mind
You've got no one to know

Hey, down in splendour
Take a bow
Blinded in the white light
And the crowd
Die slowly in your arms
You're left to lie alone

And save your face of changing colour
And your smile of fading colour
'Cause you'll never know another
Who will give you ever after

And you shouldn't have to say goodbye
And wonder if this way is how
It's gonna be
And you shouldn't have to say goodbye
And wonder if this way is how
It's gonna be

And save your face of changing colour
And your smile of fading colour
'Cause you'll never know another
Who will give you ever after

And you shouldn't have to say goodbye
And wonder if this way is how
It's gonna be
And you shouldn't have to say goodbye
And wonder if this way is how
It's gonna be
And you shouldn't have to say goodbye
And wonder if this way is how
It's gonna be


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Musical Monday (2025/03/03) – Star Crossed Lovers

It’s not very often you’ll find me posting a “Musical Monday” article about a love-themed song—they’re generally not my cup of tea. However, this particular song touched me in a special way, and I’d like to share why.

Neil Sedaka’s Original

Neil Sedaka released “Star Crossed Lovers” in 1969 as part of his efforts to revive his career after a decline in popularity during the mid-1960s. Known for his string of hits in the late 1950s and early 1960s, Sedaka co-wrote the song with his long-time collaborator, Howard Greenfield. It was released as a 45 rpm single on the SGC label in the US and the Atlantic label in Australia. The song reached number one on the Australian charts and was considered one of Australia’s top songs of 1969.

Craig Scott’s Kiwi Cover

Until I did a little digging for this article, I hadn’t heard Sedaka’s original, nor did I realise the version I’m familiar with was a cover. Craig Scott, a Kiwi artist, covered “Star Crossed Lovers” in 1970. His version became a significant hit in New Zealand, reaching the number one spot on the national charts.

Scott’s rendition was notable for its warm vocal delivery and the harpsichord-sounding keyboard, which added a unique touch to the song. Released on 29 April 1970, it quickly gained popularity, holding the number one position for four weeks.

Scott’s success with “Star Crossed Lovers” marked a high point in his career, and he continued to enjoy popularity in New Zealand throughout the early 1970s. Despite his success, he eventually left the music industry in the late 1970s and later started New Zealand’s first video rental business.

My Personal Connection

My special relationship with this song began about a year later when I decided to ask my then pen friend—now my wife—to marry me. Religion wasn’t an issue; although I hail from a nominally secular Christian background and my future wife came from a Shinto/Buddhist background, neither of us perceived ourselves as religious. As fate would have it, she proposed to me by mail at the same time I did. Remarkably, she received my proposal on the same day I received hers, approximately two weeks after posting.

At that time, I had no friends I could confide in, and I was deeply anxious about how my family might take the news of my intention to marry someone of a different ethnicity—someone they had never met. My greatest worry was my mother. She had been engaged before the commencement of World War II, and her fiancé had been killed by the Japanese. Although she had never expressed any animosity towards Japanese people, I couldn’t shake the fear that this news might reopen old wounds. The thought of potentially causing her pain weighed heavily on my heart.

Meanwhile, my fiancée had broken the news to her parents, and initially, they were totally opposed to her travelling to the opposite end of the world to start a new life. They couldn’t fathom their daughter leaving everything she knew for someone they had never met.

In the solitude of those weeks, I played “Star Crossed Lovers” over and over whenever I was alone, grappling with how to approach my family about my plans for the future. The song became my solace, echoing the uncertainty and hope that filled my days. Like the characters in the song, we seemed like star-crossed lovers, unsure of how others would accept our relationship.

A Joyful Resolution

As it turned out, my worries were needless. My parents were overjoyed at the prospect of me having a wife and them gaining a new daughter-in-law. Unbeknownst to me, they had harboured a concern that my lack of social skills would render me a bachelor for the rest of my days. You might say they were over the moon.

And my future parents-in-law? Once they realised that their daughter was going to marry me with or without their blessing, they relented. By the time I first met them, they had come to see that if anyone could be a suitable match for their stubborn, strong-willed daughter, then I was the best candidate.

This song, which once filled me with trepidation, now brings back fond memories of a pivotal moment in my life. It’s a reminder of how love can bridge gaps and ease fears—something I hadn’t expected from a love song, but I’m grateful nonetheless.

Star Crossed Lovers

Father, dear father, I come to confession
Hoping to find peace of mind
Father, I've fallen in love with an angel
But she's not one of our kind
If it's a sin to want her and need her
This is what I'm guilty of
She won't believe in the things we believe in
But she believes in my love

Star-crossed lovers
Is there a place for us
In this world?

Father, dear father
I can't live without her
Is it your wish we must part?
Would you refuse
To give me your blessing
If I should follow my heart?

Father, please tell me
Are we so different
And is our love
So unwise?
We both believe
There is the one God in heaven
But we see him through different eyes

Star-crossed lovers
Is there a place for us
In this world?

Star-crossed lovers
Is there a place for us
In this world?

(Star-crossed lovers)
Is there a place for us
In this world?

(Star-crossed lovers)
Is there a place for us
In this world?


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An Apology from New Zealand: Oops, We Created Music Reality TV

Hey world, we owe you an apology. We didn’t mean to, but we created the music reality TV genre. You remember “Popstars,” right? That TVNZ show from way back in 1999? Yep, that was us. We’re the ones who launched TrueBliss and gave birth to this global phenomenon. So, let us explain how it all went down.

It started innocently enough. We thought, “Let’s have some fun and form a pop group on TV.” Little did we know, we were pioneers, trailblazers even. Who knew our little show would inspire juggernauts like “Pop Idol,” “The X Factor,” and “American Idol”? Gulp.

But wait, there’s more. The format of “Popstars” was so irresistible it got sold to over 50 countries. Suddenly, everyone wanted a piece of the action. We had no idea we were unleashing a new TV genre that would take over the world.

So, to everyone who’s been glued to their screens watching countless auditions, epic performances, and the drama that only reality TV can bring—we’re sorry. We showed how reality TV could launch music careers, and it changed the industry forever. Our bad.

But hey, could you ever imagine a world without those reality TV moments? Exactly. You’re welcome. 😉

This is what we created:


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Musical Monday (2025/01/27) – Saint Paul

“Saint Paul” is a song by New Zealand singer Shane (Shane Hales), released in 1969. Written by American producer Terry Knight, the song is about Paul McCartney and played a role in the “Paul is dead” conspiracy theories that were popular at the time. The song borrows elements from Beatles songs, which Knight eventually got permission to incorporate. Shane’s rendition of the song became a number one hit in New Zealand and won the Loxene Golden Disc for local song of the year in 1969.

The song’s success in New Zealand was remarkable, although it did not manage to achieve the same level of recognition or chart success in other countries. The lyrics were interpreted by some as containing hidden messages pointing to McCartney’s supposed demise, which added to the song’s intrigue and popularity during that era.

Shane Hales, better known simply as Shane, is a notable figure in the New Zealand music scene. He first gained fame with his energetic performances and charismatic stage presence. After the success of “Saint Paul,” Shane continued to pursue a successful music career. He became well-known for his rock and pop songs, and his versatility as a performer allowed him to remain relevant in the ever-changing music industry.

During the 1970s, Shane expanded his career by playing the role of Jesus in “Jesus Christ Superstar,” showcasing his versatility as an artist. His contributions to the New Zealand music scene have left a lasting impact, and his version of “Saint Paul” remains a beloved classic to this day.

For those who haven’t heard it yet, Shane’s rendition of “Saint Paul” is a captivating blend of pop and rock with a touch of mysterious allure. It’s a must-listen for anyone interested in classic hits from the late 1960s.

Saint Paul – Shane
Saint Paul
I looked into the sky
Everything was high
Higher than it seemed to be to me
Standing by the sea
Thinking I was free
Did I hear you call or was I dreaming then, St. Paul?

You knew it all along
Something had gone wrong
They couldn't hear your song of sadness in the air
While they were crying out, "beware"
Your flowers and long hair
While you and Sgt. Pepper saw the writing on the wall

You say you want to donate your life to the future
They say they've got dues to pay today
You say it's the fool who plays it cool, sir
And if tomorrow comes, you know, they'll all hеar St. Paul say
"Let me take you down"

You had a diffеrent view
Hey there, Paul, what's new?
Did Judas really talk to you or did you put us on?
I think there's something wrong
It's taking you too long
To change the world
Sir Isaac Newton said it had to fall
Hey, St. Paul!

You say you want to donate your life to the future
They say they've got dues to pay today
You say it's the fool who plays it cool, sir
And if tomorrow comes, you know, they'll all hear St Paul say
"I read the news today, oh boy"

You had a different view
Hey there, Paul, what's new?
Did Judas talk to you or did you put the whole world on?
I think there's something wrong
It's taking you too long to change the world
Sir Isaac Newton told you it would fall
You didn't listen, St. Paul!

La, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, hey Paul
La, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, hey Paul
(Lucy in the sky with diamonds)
La, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, hey Paul
(Love is all you need, love is all you need, love is all you need, love is all you need, love is all you need)
La, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, hey Paul

La, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, hey Paul
La, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, hey Paul
La, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, hey Paul
La, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, hey Paul
La, la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, hey Paul


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Greg Carroll & One Tree Hill

I am republishing a post from last year commemorating the loss of someone who still holds a special place in my heart

The 3rd of July commemorates a very special person in my life, who died tragically on this day in 1986. I knew Greg Carroll for around two years – while he worked as a trainee engineer in the same branch of the multinational I.T. company where I was employed. He was about eleven years my junior and still in his late teens, but Greg was one of those rare individuals where age seemed to be insignificant. We spent quite a lot of time together as we travel about the Whanganui, Rangitikei, Ruapehu and Taihape districts in the course of our work, sometimes including a night or two in a hotel or motel. Few people have put me at ease, where I feel able, confident and safe enough to share my greatest hopes, dreams and fears – all at the same time!

I’m not the only person who Greg had a profound influence on. There were many, not least of which was Bono of U2. This particular song was written by Bono in honour of Greg after he was killed in a motorcycle crash in Dublin in 1986. I’ve played One Tree Hill song twice before: One Tree Hill and Musical Monday (2021/11/08) – One tree Hill, and for that I make no apologies. I’m sure to play it again in the future. You can read a little more about my personal recollections of Greg there, as well as a very brief intro to Greg’s and Bono’s relationship.

It was an honour and a privilege to have known Greg. As the years go by, and the details of the time we spent in each other’s company fade, I have become more aware of just how much he made me feel like a complete person and not the socially clumsy misfit that most people perceived me to be.

There are quite a few versions of One Tree Hill available on YouTube. The one I’ve included is the version I first saw as presented on New Zealand television in 1988. There was no official video, as I believe New Zealand and Australia were the only countries where One Tree Hill was released as a single, and TVNZ cobbled together a collection of archived clips to accompany the song for its top ten hit parade in March 1988.

Wikipedia has a surprisingly detailed background to the history behind the song for those who might be interested: One Tree Hill (song)

One Tree Hill – U2
"One Tree Hill" – U2

We turn away to face the cold, enduring chill
As the day begs the night for mercy love
The sun so bright it leaves no shadows
Only scars carved into stone
On the face of earth
The moon is up and over One Tree Hill
We see the sun go down in your eyes

You run like river, on like a sea
You run like a river runs to the sea

And in the world a heart of darkness
A fire zone
Where poets speak their heart
Then bleed for it
Jara sang, his song a weapon
In the hands of love
You know his blood still cries
From the ground

It runs like a river runs to the sea
It runs like a river to the sea

I don't believe in painted roses
Or bleeding hearts
While bullets rape the night of the merciful
I'll see you again
When the stars fall from the sky
And the moon has turned red
Over One Tree Hill

We run like a river
Run to the sea
We run like a river to the sea
And when it's raining
Raining hard
That's when the rain will
Break my heart

Raining...raining in the heart
Raining in your heart
Raining...raining to your heart
Raining, raining...raining
Raining to your heart
Raining...raining in your heart
Raining in your heart..
To the sea

Oh great ocean
Oh great sea
Run to the ocean
Run to the sea


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Musical Monday (2024/04/29) – Into the West

I think I have played only one song previously that was written for the soundtrack of a film – “Find You” from the from the film The Stolen. Today’s song plays over the credits at the end of the final film of the Lord of the Rings trilogy – The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.

The inspiration to write “Into the West” came from a poignant source. As Howard Shore was trying to write a different closing credits song, the tragic story of Cameron Duncan, a young Māori New Zealand filmmaker who was dying from cancer at 16 years old, moved the team. His imminent passing inspired Shore, Fran Walsh, and Annie Lennox to write “Into the West” as a tribute. The first public performance of the song was at Cameron Duncan’s funeral where it was sung by Annie Lennox.

The Lord of the Rings sound track features Lennox’s voice but the track I’m playing today is from the album Into the West by Yulia, released in 2005. The reason I have chosen Julia instead of Annie Lennox is several fold. I fell in love with Julia’s voice the first time I heard it. She has a lovely rich contralto voice but she can also perform beautifully in the mezzo-soprano range. I was gifted the Into the West CD by my daughter, and it is one of the few CDs I still own. I heard Julia’s rendition well before got to see The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, and I think that Yulia’s rendition is more soulful – hauntingly beautiful even – in comparison to the soundtrack by Lennox.

Yulia was barely 18 when she recorded the album Into the West. It’s even more remarkable that she had arrived in Aotearoa only two years earlier after she and her mother emigrated from Russia. In those two years she learnt to speak English and completed her high school education. The album achieved four times platinum within weeks of being released and went on to become the number one selling album for 2005. Her second album Montage also became a number one best seller two years later, earning Yulia the status of being the first New Zealand female singer to have back to back number one albums. The two albums demonstrate her linguistic talents with songs in English, Russian, Italian, French, Māori and Spanish.

I don’t particularly care how my family arranges my funeral, and It wouldn’t upset me if a formal send off didn’t occur. After all I’ll be dead, and I’ve never enjoyed crowds anyway. But should they feel the need to celebrate my former life, I would like to think it will be in the manner of Quakers – no formal program, just silence with individuals standing to speak when they feel moved to do so. However, I would like this song played, and the lyrics displayed as my body is taken away for cremation. And on that sombre note, here’s the song. Enjoy!

Into the West – Yulia
Into the West

Lay down
Your sweet and weary head
Night is falling
You have come to journey's end
Sleep now
And dream of the ones who came before
They are calling
From across the distant shore
Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see
All of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms
You're only sleeping

What can you see
On the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea
A pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home

And all will turn
To silver glass
A light on the water
All souls pass
Hope fades
Into the world of night
Through shadows falling
Out of memory and time
Don't say we have come now to the end
White shores are calling
You and I will meet again
And you'll be here in my arms
Just sleeping

What can you see
On the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea
A pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home

And all will turn
To silver glass
A light on the water
Grey ships pass
Into the West


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Musical Monday (2024/04/15) – We Tried

A powerful message. There’s nothing more I can add.

Louise Harris – We Tried (Official Music Video)
The world is changing all the time
And you know it ain't right
Yeah, I know you think twice
And love, it takes you on a ride
And leaves you with no respite
Well, I think I've done my time

But I
I don't want to cry

So take me where the bluebirds sing
While we lose everything
There's too much poisoning
And fly me where the birds still fly
'Cause smoke fills up our sky
'Cause we ran out of time
Oh well, we tried

Well, maybe this was meant to be
A mother wanted peace
And we were not conceived
Or maybe we were meant to win
But not enough good drowned out the sin
They watched the world cave in

But I
I can't work out why

So take me where the bluebirds sing
While we lose everything
There's too much poisoning
And fly me where the birds still fly
'Cause smoke fills up our sky
'Cause we ran out of time
Oh well, we tried

(We tried, we tried, we tried, we tried)
(We tried, we tried, we tried, we tried)
(We tried, we tried, we tried, we tried)
Oh well, we tried


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Musical Monday (2024/04/08) – Slightly Delic

I’m a sucker for quirky music. Slightly-Delic by House of Nimrod is a fascinating piece of New Zealand music history. It’s a psychedelic pop song released in 1967. A delightful oddity that captures the essence of the summer of Love with its harmonious and experimental sound, the track features a blend of dreamy harmonies and trippy instrumentation, characteristic of the psychedelic genre. While it didn’t achieve global fame, it resonated with local listeners and became a cherished gem.

The House of Nimrod was a short lived band from Auckland. Quoting from the House of Nimrod page on the Audioculture website:
In the context of the times, the group made musical sense. Who better than a folkie and children’s songwriter, who dug classical, jazz, folk and pop – all elements of the current sound – to capture the childlike psychedelic pop of the time? Who better to back him than four survivors of rock and roll’s frenetic beat and R&B years? I don’t doubt the relevance of a Bob Dylan fan like Petersen linking up with an electric band was lost on any of them.

At the time I was a an 18 year old with no friends and unable to tolerate the loud rock music at venues that teens and young adults of the day frequented. I spent most evenings by myself with the transistor radio tuned to Radio Hauraki – a pirate radio station that operated from just outside NZ territorial waters in the Hauraki Gulf. Reception was somewhat sporadic as the the radio signal had to cross a distance of around 500 Kilometres to reach my home town of Whanganui over the mountainous terrain of the North Island’s Central Plateau.

Slightly-Delic – House Of Nimrod

Slightly Delic

Slightly Delic
Slightly Delic

I live in a castle with Fairies and Things
Got lots of gold pieces and diamonds and rings
Last night I had tea with the Man in the Moon
And Aladdin is coming to visit me soon

Slightly Delic
Slightly Delic

Play Hidey go seek with Snow White and the dwarfs
I’ve been for a ride on the Lone Rangers horse
Gotta big golden coach with six horses to drive
But I’m not supposed to cause I’m only five

Slightly Delic
Slightly Delic

The hippies all know me as Chief Sitting Bull
I knew Bah Bah Black sheep when he had no wool
Whatever you’ve done I have done it before
And I’m just full of love for my mother-in-law

Slightly Delic
Slightly Delic

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