Red Hot Summer Tour - Hunter Valley
The Hunter Valley did that spring thing where it turns the dial to “warm and welcoming,” then throws a few clouds across the sun like a friendly hand over a cold beer. Roche Estate filled early with rows of fold-up chairs, esky convoys, and the kind of relaxed anticipation that builds when you can smell sunscreen, sausages and Shiraz in equal measure. Between the stage and the front-of-house desk stretched a wide green dance area, an open invitation that no one ignored once the first chords hit. It wasn’t red-hot by temperature, but the music and mood absolutely were, and fittingly for this bill, the day belonged to songs, siblings and serious harmonies.
Jae Laffer ambled on with the disarming calm of a man who writes songs on long car rides then plays them for new friends at sunset. With Hotel Motel he set the tone, Lennon-esque storytelling about nostalgia and the in-between places that make you who you are. On The Birds (from The Panics) and Carried Away, the set broadened from vignette to widescreen, and you could feel shoulders drop across the lawn.
Between songs, Laffer’s warmth did as much heavy lifting as the melodies. He thanked Ash (on electric) “for learning the songs and driving up from St Kilda,” and winked about being “sent up here to check the gear.” The Panics’ Don’t Fight It arrived like a familiar letter from an old mate, and Weatherman closed the loop, a small-hours philosophy wrapped in jangling charm. Understated, gracious and quietly luminous, it was the perfect ignition for the afternoon.
Donna Simpson, Vikki Thorn, Josh Cunningham, Ben Franz and David Ross Macdonald walked on to a wave of affection you can’t fake. Thirty-five years in, The Waifs are less a band and more a moving porch where strangers become cousins. Highway One opened with Donna at the wheel, a road movie in two verses. Vikki’s Willow Tree swayed in next, her harmonica carving bright air over the valley.
The harmonies, gloriously three-part on Ironbark, were a masterclass, open-throated and perfectly human. Fisho Daughter and Bridal Train braided family history and Australian geography, with Vikki talking about her grandmother crossing the country to marry a serviceman. You could hear the hush roll outward like a tide. Donna’s “latest breakup song” Done & Dusted landed with a grin and a sting, then London Still arrived on the back of a crisp drum groove, snapping the whole paddock to attention. They closed with Lighthouse, beaming warmth across the Hunter as clouds made soft shapes on the hills. If you came for harmonies, you left with a minor addiction.
Mark Seymour strode out flanked by Vika and Linda Bull, and suddenly the afternoon had vertebrae. From the opening swing of The Boxer, everything clicked: guitars taut, drums urgent, voices interlocking like good architecture. Hangin’ Round sharpened the edge, and Fall for Me found Vika and Linda grinning, “Mark wrote this for us when we left The Black Sorrows.” Cue goosebumps, round one.
Then came the stories that make songs heavier in the best way. Linda framed Waiting for the Kid as a single parent’s hymn, “a cracker,” she said, and it tore through the valley with a gorgeous ache. A new cut, Where Do You Come From, written by Vika and Linda about childhood slights (“you’re not from around here, are you?”), was equal parts tenderness and steel, the kind of song that turns a crowd into witnesses.
When Seymour introduced Holy Grail, he deadpanned about solving problems “with a band you might know,” and the place just levitated. Westgate followed, a love-letter to a slab of 70s Melbourne concrete, and delivered the show’s first goosebump drum break, sliding into a wiry guitar solo and a hard stop that felt like an exclamation mark. Throw Your Arms Around Me was the inevitable, welcome embrace, and Say Goodbye, introduced by Vika as “a Hunter’s song that’s mine now,” re-framed a classic with devastating poise. Three leads, one spine. That’s how you do it.
By the time Steve Kilbey and co. drifted on, the sun had softened, the screens were blooming with kaleidoscopic light, and the guitars were tuned to cathedral. Metropolis and Almost With You unfurled like old photographs you swear are in colour now. The Hypnogogue bent time in the middle, before the crowd got exactly what it had come hoping for, The Unguarded Moment. Kilbey smirked, “About 44 years ago I wrote a true Aussie pub rock anthem, you know which it is,” and the hills obliged.
“Are you happy now?” he teased afterward. “It’s probably all downhill from here.” It wasn’t. Interlude roared with an enormous, elegant solo that had the bar staff peering over shoulders. Then came the story to end all receipts: a youthful night at King’s Cross, a venue called the Tool Shed, a business credit card, and an accountant who thought he’d taken up gardening. Dedication: Under the Milky Way. Written, Kilbey said, “to get out of doing the washing up,” and apparently worth “hundreds of dollars.” It glowed, as it always does. A new one, Sacred Echoes, rang true and present, the band flexing without trading away the myth. Reptile snapped the set shut, serrated and satisfied.
Dusk. Fairy-light air. Julia in a white lace dress, Angus in a dark suit and sunnies. Their band easing into place with the quiet confidence of a string quartet that tours stadiums. The sibling telepathy was obvious from the first breath, tiny glances and small smiles, as they opened with Streets of Your Town and Nothing Else. Julia sang and lifted trumpet phrases that moved like ribbons over the valley; by Little Whiskey she’d slung on an electric and the set bloomed darker and richer. Somewhere around Private Lawns, keyboardist Aran Mendoza slipped into a gorgeous talkbox-vocoder shimmer while Angus kept the groove steady, and Ben Edgar swapped to banjo for Grizzly Bear, a gorgeous bit of timber and spark.
They dropped a surprise cover, Stay With Me, and made it theirs with butter-smooth harmony. Then Julia told the story of emailing a song to an ex (“I think he thought we were just exchanging songs”) and introduced For You. It landed like a letter you’d been dreading and hoping for, all at once. Angus paused to salute their grandmother, “Happy 89th, she’s here tonight,” then spoke with genuine awe about sharing a bill with the legends they grew up idolising: “And I get to do this with my sister, I’m biased, she’s brilliant.”
When Big Jet Plane drifted in, the sky turned violet and the cameras glowed. It was the day’s softest roar.
They kept it simple: instruments up, lights up, boom, When You Come. The lawn erupted, the hillside stood, and for the next ninety minutes Crowded House reminded everyone why melody and wit never go out of season. Mean To Me into World Where You Live felt like stepping stones across a lake you’ve known since childhood. Oh Hi and Fall At Your Feet brought the hush, and then Neil, with that familiar glint, snuck into a Hot Chocolate jam, You Sexy Thing, that grinned straight into Something So Strong. This is how pros entertain themselves and everyone else.
“We all live on islands,” Neil mused before To The Island, tipping the hat to the day’s family theme and the sea of New Zealand and Australian anthems that had washed across the hills. Either Side of the World and a piano-led (A) Message to You added a louche, late-evening sway; somewhere in there he clocked the back of the hill, “you look magnificent from here.” The lighting was vivid, a painter’s palette behind them, with the stage art carrying that unmistakable Crowded aesthetic (no doubt Nick Seymour’s fingerprints near or on it; man’s literally won ARIAs for that).
Neil pointed out Nick’s lovely orange suit, “he dyed it himself… for your sins… and to feel more Dutch!” while Liam carved a superb solo through Nails In My Feet. The group vocals were satin; this band still stacks harmonies like it’s an Olympic sport. Then came the birthday: “People of the valley and beyond,” Neil declared, “today is the birthday of Elroy Finn,” and the crowd rolled a chorus of Happy Birthday that Mitchell Froom gilded at the keys before Neil launched a gleeful rock-burst of They Say It’s Your Birthday. “Five keys higher than the original,” he laughed. “I think I just about made it.”
From there, mischief. The setlist loosened. Neil handed his paper copy to a fan, “we seem to have gone a little off-piste; won’t be needing this,” and the band dove into Chocolate Cake, cheekily nodding to the audience QR vote and Elroy’s big day. The home stretch was a civic singalong: Distant Sun, Don’t Dream It’s Over, I Got You, Weather With You, and finally Better Be Home Soon, a final communion that rolled like low thunder across the vines. They’ve aged like a good Hunter Shiraz, deeper, brighter, more persuasive, and the songs wear the years the way you hope to wear yours.
Even as the last chords dissolved, Roche Estate glowed under the soft spill of stage light. Folding chairs were stacked, and the wide grass strip between the stage and front of house shimmered with the memory of thousands swaying in unison. As people made their way out through the rows of vines, snippets of conversation drifted through the night air — a woman murmuring, “You forget how good it feels to sing every word of a Crowded House song with strangers,” another voice laughing about “the Seymour brothers still knowing how to command a stage,” and someone else quietly summing up the day with, “There’s something special about watching the Finns together, it’s not just music, it’s family, and we’re all part of it for a night.”
Red Hot Summer at Roche Estate kept its promise: amazing sound, classic musicianship, and a glorious parade of family voices weaving old songs into new memories. Warm day, perfect breeze, exceptional company — the sort of Saturday you measure others against. On the drive out, the valley looked like a vinyl sleeve, bold colours, lived-in edges, and a title you’ll keep pulling from the rack.
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Thanks to the Red Hot Summer Tour, Face To Face Touring, Menard PR and the Roche Estate for having us along.
Review and Photos by Andy Kershaw for Music Festivals Australia
