Red Hot Summer Tour 2026

Bella Vista felt like a paddock with a pulse on Sunday 15 February 2026, the kind where the sky cannot decide whether it’s blessing you or bullying you. The downpour hit right before the music, so the gates filled with that unmistakable festival shuffle: people wringing out hats, shaking off rain like dogs, laughing at themselves, and re-packing ponchos they swore they’d never need again. The air smelt like wet grass and hot chips. Everyone looked slightly ridiculous in the best way. And somehow, that shared dampness made the mood warmer, like we’d all signed the same unspoken contract: we’re here all day, we’re in it together, and we’re not letting a bit of weather steal the magic.

Jess Hitchcock came out early and instantly made it feel like the “real” day had started. There’s a particular kind of confidence in a singer who doesn’t have to chase the crowd, she just opens her mouth and the crowd comes to her. Even with a band of brilliant session musicians who may change from leg to leg, the sound landed tight and full, and Jess had that effortless command that makes you forget it’s barely past lunch.

She clocked the rain, thanked everyone for dragging themselves out early, and then did what great openers do: gave us something to hold onto. NIGHTMARE IN THE SUNSHINE hit like a truth you laugh at because it’s too accurate, those beloved people who somehow carry a small storm cloud in their back pocket. Big sound, bigger vocal, and an applause that felt like a collective “yep, I know exactly who you mean.”

Then she dropped the perfectly timed wink of the day with IF IT MAKES YOU HAPPY. When she sang “Put on a poncho”, it wasn’t just a lyric, it was a live callback to the sea of damp nylon still draped around shoulders. You could feel the chorus lift as her voice opened up, and for a moment the crowd became a choir in rain gear. A bloke behind me muttered, “I’m not crying, I’m just… still wet,” and honestly it could’ve been either.

By the time Kasey Chambers wandered on, the field had shifted from “we made it” to “we’re settling in.” Kasey has that festival superpower where she can make a huge open space feel like a living room, then turn around and punch it back into a singalong the size of a suburb. BARRICADES AND BRICKWALLS came out swinging, and she thanked everyone for pushing forward, like she wanted the front section packed in close so the energy could bounce straight back off us.

And then the roar for NOT PRETTY ENOUGH was instant and massive, the kind that doesn’t need prompting. She looked out, grinning, and dropped one of the lines of the day about how nothing makes her happier than seeing a big bearded bloke singing “am I not pretty enough” with full passion. The big bearded bloke energy in the crowd doubled on the spot. Someone nearby said, dead serious, “Mate, this song raised me,” and you could hear the truth in it.

Kasey’s between-song banter was pure Kasey, warm, self-deprecating, and sharp as a tack. She told the story about the phone call offering her a spot on the tour, and how what she really heard was “do you want free tickets to see Paul Kelly,” and she was like, hell yeah. That set the tone beautifully: yes, I’m going to play sad country songs, and yes, I’m going to do it with a smile on my face, because look at this day we’ve all built together.

The family thread ran through her set in the most endearing way. On PONY, she introduced her dad stepping in, now on slide guitar, and the crowd cheered like they’d been waiting to adopt him. Kasey, immediately: “No, don’t encourage him. He’ll expect us to start paying him for shows.” Big laugh. Bigger cheer. You could actually see people nudging each other like, that’s exactly what my family would do.

Then came the surprise that had everyone leaning in: a stripped back cover of Eminem’s LOSE YOURSELF. Banjo, bass, harmonies, and that slow build where you can feel the audience thinking, is this really about to work? And then it absolutely did. When the full band swelled in and the slide guitar lifted it, the cheer was huge, like the whole field had collectively realised it was holding its breath.

By mid-afternoon, The Cat Empire walked on and the atmosphere snapped into colour. The stage turned into a carnival in seconds. Horns lined up like they were ready to start a street parade. Piano ready to sparkle. Bass and drums locked in like a heartbeat. Percussion everywhere, the kind where you don’t even try to count it, you just accept you’re about to be moved against your will.

They hit that sweet spot between precision and chaos, where every part is tight but it still feels like the whole thing might launch into orbit. OSCAR WILD landed as one of those crowd-pleaser left turns, a song about a dog that somehow makes you grin like a kid. The family vibe was everywhere too, Felix pointing out the generations in the crowd, and then dedicating TWO SHOES with that “this one’s for you guys” sincerity that doesn’t feel cheesy when it’s true. The middle piano moment was almost classical, like the festival had briefly become a concert hall before snapping back into party mode.

Then came one of the day’s pure “did you see that?” moments: SLY, featuring a drum solo from Daniel Farrugia that did not just hit hard, it lived, breathed, pulsed and completely consumed the space. It wasn’t just dynamic. It was melodic. It told a story without words, and somehow dragged everyone with it. A teenager near me shouted, “That drummer is not human,” and honestly, fair call.

They dusted off HELLO and reinvented it, and the opening brass signature had the crowd bouncing before the lyric even arrived. Later, STILL YOUNG felt like a blessing disguised as a banger, the kind you sing with your mates while secretly filing it away as life advice. And STEAL THE LIGHT did exactly that: drums and bass driving, piano floating, then that Latin twist in the chorus that had bodies swaying like the field had turned into a warm ocean. They closed with CHARIOT, and the cheer wasn’t just for the song, it was for the sheer lift of it all.

The Cruel Sea shifted the whole colour palette. Suddenly it was less confetti, more smoke. They opened with ORLEANS STOMP, and Ken Gormly was rocking out like he had a private joke with the bass. It set a mood: cool, grounded, a little dangerous, like the sun had started leaning toward late afternoon and the day was growing teeth.

Tex Perkins walked on with that larger-than-life presence, the kind that makes you straighten your spine even if you’re holding a drink. Then came one of the festival’s cinematic moments. Tex asked us to join in with the band, and with the sun itself, and as if the whole sky was in on the gag, the clouds parted and sunlight poured through right on cue. He stood there, tambourine in hand, wearing nature’s spotlight like it had been booked weeks ago. STRAIGHT INTO THE SUN felt less like a song and more like a pact between the weather and the crowd. And as the last bars rang out, the sun slipped back behind the clouds and Tex, without missing a beat: don’t you be gone too long, we’ll be needing you again soon. Goosebumps. Proper ones.

He kept the banter rolling in that dry, unmistakably Tex way. Dedication for all the delivery drivers with DELIVERY MAN, then he clocked the police stationed near the front of house sound desk, complimented them as “fine specimens,” and got them to give the crowd a wave. They did. The place erupted. Then, with perfect timing, he steered straight into BETTER GET A LAWYER, and the laugh turned into a cheer, because the joke landed and the song hit.

And then the singalong section arrived like a train you could hear coming. Tex basically warned us we’d know the words for the next stretch, and he wasn’t wrong. When THE HONEYMOON IS OVER rolled in, it felt like the entire field opened their mouths at once. Someone next to me said, softly, “This takes me straight back,” and you didn’t need to ask where. That’s what those songs do. They don’t just play, they time travel.

Missy Higgins came on at six and brought the day back into the realm of stories you carry in your chest. Classy entrance, huge applause, and that first hit of GOING NORTH felt like a reset, a deep breath after the roar of the afternoon. Missy has that gift where she can sit at a piano or step forward with a guitar and make a giant crowd feel like it’s listening on purpose, not just waiting for a chorus.

She told stories, and you could feel people leaning in, not out of politeness but because it mattered. She talked about writing TEN DAYS back when she was living at home, complex feelings, the ache of missing someone who’s gone away, and suddenly you could see a few couples squeeze hands without even thinking about it.

Then came the moment that was half vulnerable, half hilarious: THE IN-BETWEEN, from Second Act, with the late-day sun still lingering like it did not want to leave. Jacket off, sunglasses delivered from side-stage like a tiny rockstar coronation. She put them on, posed, and basically said, I like these, I feel cool, you’re looking at the second act. The crowd loved it. It was human and brave and funny at once.

HIDDEN ONES landed with a quiet weight. You could feel it connect with people who didn’t necessarily want to be seen connecting. It’s a song that holds space for the unseen, the misunderstood, the ones carrying shame or fear or difference, and in a festival setting, that’s powerful because it reminds you that even in a crowd, people can be lonely.

Then she caught herself mid-story and laughed, “Right, slight change of plan, I’m being told that I’m talking too much.” The cheer back was immediate. Run over, we don’t care. She smiled into it, and you could feel what she meant without her labouring the point. It matters to her, and it matters to us, because when you know where a song comes from, it lands differently. Deeper. Truer. Like you’ve been handed the key, not just the melody. DON’T EVER followed with that young-love, desert-island escape feeling, and you could almost see the horizon she was singing toward.

One of the night’s biggest goosebump moments came with THE SPECIAL TWO. Missy introduced it with that story about not telling people for years what it was really about, wanting them to think it was a conventional love song, maybe even something people would walk down the aisle to. Then she revealed it was about her first big feud with her older sister, an apology wrapped in melody. The performance started as a raw, vulnerable piano version, then the strings and slide guitar crept in like a sunrise, bass and drums deepening it until the whole thing soared. It felt like watching someone forgive their younger self in real time.

And then came the release valves: SCAR turned into a massive singalong, the kind where you stop worrying about how you sound because everyone’s too busy meaning it. STEER finished her set with bounce and uplift, and when the band came forward for a bow, the applause had that “thank you for telling the truth” energy. A woman near me said, “That song saved me once,” and nobody laughed, because we all understood exactly what she meant.

Paul Kelly at 7.30 felt like the final chapter of a book you didn’t want to end. The light had dropped, the haze and colour started doing that beautiful night-show thing, and somehow, despite it being nine hours since many arrived, the crowd was still there. Not drifting. Not fading. Still listening. That says everything.

He opened at the piano with HOUNDSTOOTH DRESS, and it was like the whole field exhaled. Then he explained his bandaged finger, damaged playing footy, and someone in the band immediately threw in a cheeky “State of Origin?” from the side. Paul smiled at it like this was a well-worn joke in a very well-loved group chat. He introduced the band with that humble humour, including borrowing Matt Walker from The Cruel Sea, and then slipped straight into one of the best story-payoffs of the night: RITA WROTE A LETTER, the sequel to the world of HOW TO MAKE GRAVY. People reacted to that like they were catching up with characters from their own lives.

The sound was tight and clean, that beautiful Paul Kelly clarity where every word lands without pushing. You could see the band operating like a well-oiled machine: Bill McDonald and Peter Luscombe holding it down, Cameron Bruce’s keys colouring the edges, Dan Kelly on guitar, Matt Walker settling in like he’d always been there, and Ash Naylor delivering lead breaks that were always tasteful, never overplayed, always exactly what the song needed.

There were quieter, pin-drop moments too. Paul and Matt Walker alone under a simple spotlight for THEY THOUGHT I WAS ASLEEP felt intimate in a way that shouldn’t be possible in an open-air festival.

And then TO HER DOOR. The crowd knew it was coming. You could feel that intake of breath as the lyric rolled up to the line about a heart singing like a low down guitar, and right on cue, Ash’s guitar stepped forward and answered the sentence like it had been waiting all day to speak. It was one of those perfectly musical moments where the writing and the band are in on the same little secret.

As darkness properly settled, the lighting team earned their pay. The stage slipped into jade and violet haze for DEEPER WATER, like the sea itself had climbed up the rigging, and the whole scene felt submerged for a beat. Then the band kicked in and the colours brightened and the pulse lifted, and suddenly we were back on land, breathing again.

One of the loveliest emotional punches came when Paul introduced HAPPY BIRTHDAY ADA MAE, written as a letter to his granddaughter on her second birthday. The lyric “Ada Mae, you’re two today, guess I’ll be gone before you’re 20” hit the crowd hard, you could feel that ripple of mortality and tenderness, and Paul, hearing the reaction, softened it with a gentle “nah, it’s alright,” that drew a warm laugh and took the sting out without taking the meaning away. That’s the Paul Kelly trick. He can hold the heavy stuff and still keep you smiling.

Then came the tribute that turned the whole place reverent. Paul spoke about losing an icon of Australian music, Rob Hirst from Midnight Oil, calling him a big tree that’s come down, and dedicated THE DEAD HEART to him. Jess took the lead, Paul shared it at times, the harmonies layered in, and it was powerful and fitting. Not flashy. Just felt. You could hear the crowd singing like they were paying respects, not just joining in.

And yes, when HOW TO MAKE GRAVY arrived, it was the moment people had been quietly waiting for all day. The field swayed in unison, listening intently like nobody wanted to miss a word, or a tip. The rendition was rich and full of depth, which felt perfectly apt, like the song itself had been simmering for years and tonight it finally came out thick, warm, and fully seasoned. The applause afterward was loud and long, the kind that keeps going because people don’t know how else to say thank you.

Paul took time to thank everyone who makes days like this happen, stage crew, sound, lights, bars, security, food vendors, the whole lot, and then thanked the crowd for buying tickets and showing up to keep live music alive. It landed because it was sincere. Then, in classic Paul fashion, he pointed out the importance of one-syllable names in a great band as he introduced them: Dan, Matt, Bill, Cam, Pete, Jess, Ash. The crowd laughed, and the band looked like a bunch of mates who still can’t believe this is their job.

The encore lifted the whole night one last time. FROM LITTLE THINGS BIG THINGS GROW felt like a reminder and a promise. LEAPS AND BOUNDS brought the energy back up, those guitars cutting through the night air. And then the closer, the moment that will stick to the ribs for ages: the band gathered at the front under a single spotlight, huddled around one mic, unaccompanied, harmonies and call and response for MEET ME IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AIR. It felt like a gospel choir in a paddock, or islanders singing something ancient and new at the same time. Wonderful, sad, joyous, and somehow exactly right. The kind of ending where you don’t cheer straight away because you need a second to come back to yourself.

We arrived a bit damp, stayed a little dusty, and left not muddy so much as marked, in that good way only live music can manage. Six acts, one long shared day, and a crowd that kept choosing to lean in, even when the weather tried to lean back. These are the days you remember when you are stuck at a desk later, the ones you replay in your head for warmth. The sunlight on Tex right when he asked for it. Missy turning a life chapter into a chorus. Paul making a whole field go quiet for a story, then sing like it mattered.

And it did.

We did not just watch a festival. We lived inside it.

Thank you to the Red Hot Summer Tour, all the Artist’s & Band’s, Face To Face Touring and Menard PR for having us along.

Review and Photos by Andy Kershaw for Music Festivals Australia