Live Review plus Gallery: A pop-up masterclass in craft, warmth and multigenerational magic - Crowded House, MyState Bank Arena, Hobart, 26 November 2025

The legendary Crowded House have been undertaking a return bout of what are being called ‘pop-shows’ across Australia, covering areas they missed last year and targeting more intimate venues. Neil Finn says:

We are very excited about playing in some of our favourite theatres, in 2 halves to allow some musical adventures to take place, a wide selection of songs and styles from across our history and also a glimpse forward to our best days ahead

While the MyState Bank Arena in Hobart could not necessarily be classified as intimate, the type of show put tonight on by Crowded Houses rendered it as cozy and warm as a personal show in your lounge room. It was the last perfomance of the tour which added a certain frisson to the atmosphere, and the Hobart crowd were as ever appreciative of any tours that include this southern outpost.

It was a show of two halves with a more wide ranging and eclectic selection of songs than they performed on their big city tour last year. The first half was an acoustic set, the second electric.

There is something almost disarming about a band of Crowded House’s pedigree turning up in Hobart with so little fanfare that the whole event feels like a well-kept secret whispered between friends. In a city still finding its footing post-COVID as a regular stop for major touring acts, this “pop-up” show had the electricity of discovery—even before the Finn family stepped onto the stage.

And then they did something braver than any bombastic opener or special effect ever could: they sat down, acoustic instruments in hand, and opened with a mostly unplugged first half. No tricks, no sheen, no protective wall of amplification. Just songs—bare, human, and luminous.

The arena, normally all concrete reflections and cold edges, softened immediately. “Too Good for This World” floated out like a benediction, Neil Finn’s voice carrying the kind of lived-in warmth that time only enhances. The acoustic treatment was a reminder of how intrinsically melodic these songs are—like they were written on porches and stairwells long before they were written for radio.

The curveball early in the set was a tender, almost ghostly take on “Silent House”, one of the evening’s few detours outside the band’s catalogue and a nod to Finn’s co-writing stint with The Chicks. Stripped back, its emotional centre glowed even more fiercely—grief, memory, and acceptance plaited through the harmonies.

The band had a brief excursion into “Groove is in the Heart” a pattern followed throughout the gig where they dabbled in other songs as part of their charming banter. They discussed at length Tasmanian weather (the true fact that Hobart is the second driest capital city in Australia after Adelaide), teased the security guards into doing a dance and generally displayed a larrikin charm.

Liam Finn, increasingly the quiet architect of the band’s sonic and emotional landscape, brought an impish looseness to proceedings. His interplay with Neil—half telepathy, half friendly challenge—coloured songs like “In My Own Shell” and “It Was a Small Detail” with a kind of generational conversation. The familial thread is not just sentimental garnish; it is now central to the band’s identity. The latter song in particular showcase that the band’s ear for soaring anthemic melodies has not dimmed one iota.

The acoustic set’s emotional peak came with “Pineapple Head”, delivered with a fragile clarity that made the arena seem to shrink. “Man Lives in Chains” and “Last Summer” added unexpected shadows before the first half closed with a luminous, quietly devastating “Four Seasons in One Day”. In a city defined by meteorological mood swings, the song felt almost geographically ordained.

Then—after a brief reset—the lights brightened, the amplifiers hummed awake, and Set Two arrived with a jolt of electricity that felt like stepping into a different room entirely. The duality worked. It didn’t feel like a gimmick; it felt like a full portrait.

“Distant Sun” surged outward, the song expanding in ways the acoustic set had held in reserve. What followed was a masterclass in dynamic control: the slow-build menace of “The Howl”, the sultry, shape-shifting “Whispers and Moans”, and a towering, cinematic “When You Come” that rolled through the arena like weather.

Finn has an unteachable ability to make even the most familiar moments feel offhanded and intimate. “Fall at Your Feet” was delivered as softly as if he were singing it in your living room; “To the Island” swung with an almost playful swagger; “Mean to Me” barrelled forward with the youthful adrenaline of its Split Enz-adjacent DNA still pulsing.

The mid-set run of “Teenage Summer”, “Private Universe”, and “Fingers” showcased the band’s modern incarnation at full stretch: lithe, mysterious, and richly textured. Liam’s guitar lines stitched new colours into the older material while Elroy Finn and Nick Seymour held the rhythm section with unshowy sophistication.

As the set entered its closing arc, the emotional weight settled in. “Either Side of the World” was quietly epic complete with a ballet dancer on stage, “Message to My Girl” glowed with the charm of a beloved heirloom, and “Something So Strong” saw the crowd begin its final full-throated ascent with dancing in the aisles and spaces.

Then came the inevitable: “Don’t Dream It’s Over”, sung not as an anthem but as a collective remembering. In Hobart, it felt like a hymn.

But the band wasn’t done. The late-run sequence—“World Within”, “Elephants”, and the gloriously theatrical “Chocolate Cake”—added both heft and humour, the crowd revelling in the band’s underrated eccentricities.

A jubilant “Weather With You” turned the arena into a choir, the night concluded with a glowing, heartfelt “Better Be Home Soon”, a final reminder that for all its pop brightness, Crowded House’s music holds a human vulnerability that few bands can touch.

This wasn’t just a “pop-up” show. It was a statement: that great songwriting—honest, generous, deeply felt—needs no spectacle. Just presence. And maybe, if you’re lucky, a city like Hobart willing to listen.