Melbourne's Forum became an emotional cathedral on Friday night, brimming with bodies as anticipation rippled through the room, charged with a rare and palpable collective devotion.
I've never seen the Forum so full, nor felt a room so visibly united in admiration (23 January).
Rainbow Kitten Surprise brought a smorgasbord of soul; their sound hit hard and true, cutting through the theatre with a sharpness that rattled the ribs and steadied the heart. A live music offering soaked in vulnerability, grit and the kind of emotional honesty that slips straight under the skin and stays.
Guided into the night by Holly Hebe, the iconic Naarm monument became a space of raw exchange, a reminder of the magic that emerges when artist and audience meet in full openness.
Hebe set the emotional temperature early as she stepped softly into the light, barefoot vulnerability wrapped in sharp lyricism. Bathed in cool blues and gentle ambers, she carried the hush of a confessional into the temple, her voice fragile but unflinching.
She opened with 'Don't Come Crying', setting an immediate emotional honesty that felt measured, restrained and quietly devastating. 'If You Were A Person (Ruby's Song)' followed like a letter never meant to be read aloud, its tenderness drawing the room into a shared stillness.
By rounding out her performance with 'Out Of The Blue', Holly let the emotion bloom fully, the song lifting into something quietly expansive. There's a lived-in quality to her songwriting, like pages torn from a journal and sung aloud before they've had time to heal.
By the time she stepped offstage, the crowd was already leaning forward, feeling emotionally primed with open hearts.
As the lights dimmed again, anticipation hummed through the crowd like static. The Forum felt smaller somehow, closer, as everybody pressed into the same shared longing. Then, without theatrics or warning, Rainbow Kitten Surprise slipped into place, and the room exhaled.
The band met one another at centre stage for a group hug to commemorate their first show of 2026. A sense of honour washed over the crowd as we roared back in gratitude for this shared moment. This wasn't passive spectatorship; it was a congregation ready to give itself back in full.
Fronted by Ela Melo, whose vocals shift effortlessly between restraint and raw release, a voice that fills the space and stills it all while feeling unguarded and deeply sincere.
Melo's basslines provide a steady, grounding spine, anchoring even the most fragile moments, while Darrick 'Bozzy' Keller layers keys and texture that swell and recede like emotional undercurrents beneath the songs.
Ethan Goodpaster holds the rhythm with precision and sensitivity, knowing exactly when to strike hard and when to let space speak, adding grit and tension without overwhelming the tenderness. Touring bassist Maddie Bouton added fresh weight to the low end, her steady, commanding presence grounding the band's sound with both power and ease.
The set opened with 'Hide', a slow-burning invitation into their emotional universe. The song unfurled gently, like curtains being drawn back on something intimate and fragile, setting the tone for a night that would trade polish for truth.
The echo of "hide your love" rang out like a confession, met by a congregation unwilling to conceal theirs. Without breaking the spell, they slid into 'Dang', its restless groove injecting a jolt of momentum into the room as our hips swayed, shoulders loosened, the crowd beginning to move as one.
'Devil Like Me' landed heavy and reverent, feeling like a hymn for the imperfect, shadowed and unflinching in its honesty. Voices rose from the crowd in near unison, turning the Forum into a choir of shared reckoning.
As shivers crept up our spines, the ache deepened with 'All's Well That Ends', a song that hovered between hope and resignation, its bittersweet melody pulling a collective sigh from the room. It was the kind of quiet that comes when everyone recognises themselves in the song.
The tempo lifted with 'Fever Pitch', a pulse-driven release that sent ripples through the floorboards. Red and amber lights flared as the song throbbed with longing and obsession, before melting seamlessly into 'Tropics', which washed over the crowd like warm night air (lush, rhythmic and quietly intoxicating).
Their sound rang through the cathedral like a struck bell; hard hitting, sharp and resonant to the core. With 'When It Lands', the emotional architects leaned into introspection again, the song hovering delicately, every lyric landing with intention.
'100 Summers' followed like a nostalgic sun-soaked ache, its chorus stretching wide across the room as strangers sang like old friends remembering the same past. The emotional core of the set deepened with 'Painkillers', raw and unfiltered, its vulnerability cutting straight through the theatre.
Next we dove into a congregation favourite 'Cocaine Jesus' as it hit like a blasphemous sermon in the middle of our emotional cathedral. Equal parts irreverent and self-aware, we all shouted back at the altar with a grin. A moment of sharp irony and release led by dark humour threaded through soaring melodies, the crowd screaming every word with cathartic abandon.
Our Emotional Support Kittens lifted us into something lighter with 'First Class', its buoyant rhythm offering a breath between heavier moments, before 'Goodnight Chicago' brought things back down to earth with its tender, reflective and melancholy soaked sound, the Forum glowing softly under its emotional weight.
'Lady Lie' hit especially close to home, a song I've listened to a great many times in my car, its quiet menace and emotional tension landing with a familiarity that made the moment feel deeply personal.
The atmosphere shifted again with 'Espionage', slick and cinematic, its playful guitar riffs rippling through the crowd as bodies bounced and grinned. 'Thanks For Coming' felt like a moment of connection and gratitude that blurred the line between performer and audience, met with warm laughter and cheers.
Their sound cut sharp and hard through the Forum, every note landing with intention, every impact felt as much as it was heard. They closed the night with 'It's Called: Freefall', Rainbow Kitten Surprise delivering a final, heart throbbing hit.
The song built slowly, aching and expansive, before spilling into a euphoric swell that felt like surrender. All hands in the air, eyes closed, voices breaking as we sang along. As the final notes faded, the room erupted; it was thunderous, grateful and full-bodied admiration for Rainbow Kitten Surprise.
As the lights lifted it felt as though Rainbow Kitten Surprise had left us changed, hearts cracked open, edges softened. Together, they move as a single organism: attuned, generous and deeply connected.
The Forum proved the perfect vessel for this night, glowing like a cathedral of light with its gilded balconies and velvet shadows holding space for something tender, unravelling and quietly transcendent.
We spilled back out onto Flinders Street tender and buzzing, carrying the quiet aftershock of a night that reminded us how powerful it is to feel together. Still in awe about the incredible show we had just witnessed, my sister Liv and I unpacked each detail as the night began to settle into something deeply personal for us.
Rainbow Kitten Surprise has been the soundtrack to so many moments over the years, from long road trips with the windows down, voices singing along out of tune, songs looping endlessly as landscapes rolled past.
Their music has lived in cars, kitchens, late nights and quiet spaces, stitching itself into memory without ever asking permission. To stand in a room so full of love and devotion and hear those songs return, louder and more alive than ever, felt like meeting an old friend who knows every version of you.
Some bands soundtrack moments; Rainbow Kitten Surprise have soundtracked chapters. Friday night was a reminder of why they hold such a special place in my heart. A band bound to beautiful memories, and now, to one more I'll carry with me for a very long time.
