There's a floaty hum hanging in the air at The Tivoli in Brisbane, like everyone knows exactly what kind of music miracles The Church can manifest and they're dead keen for the rite of set one to commence.
Vangelis' 'Blade Runner' leaks from the PA, hushing the din of excited fans (25 November). Bar flies and smokers move to fill the vacant real estate on the main floor or take their allocated seats upstairs.
The band step out with an effortless cosmic swagger. Ian Haug (guitar – Powderfinger, Far Out Corporation), Ashley Naylor (guitar – Even, The Stems, touring member for Paul Kelly and RocKwiz among others), Nicholas Meredith (drums), and Timothy Guy Gerrad Powles (percussion, keys); Filling in for an ill Jeffrey Cain is Cameron MacKenzie (keys, guitar).
Punters cheer as they take their places, and then properly roar when The Church founder Steve Kilbey (vocals, bass) emerges with his Fender bass slung over his shoulder, zodiac strap barely visible under a small stream of ambient lights.
They open with 'Columbus', bass humming low and elastic under those bright, chiming guitars, the whole thing breathing in slow arcs. Kilbey's voice moves in that warm, half-spoken, half-sung spell he has perfected. Instantly, he's architecting the crowd into that dreamy headspace only he can summon.
Image © Clea-marie Thorne
Kilbey's first dialogue with the crowd: "Good evening, The Tivoli," to which he gets a roaring reception that he laps up. He then asks: "So, you like singles?" After we cheer, he playfully slaps us with a retort: "Ahh, so shallow!" We all laugh together.
'Electric Lash' lands next, jangling in like it's been soaking in sunlight for 40 years, the rhythm section keeping everything just loose enough to sway with. When they hit 'Tear It All Away', those guitars bloom outwards, the reverb stretching like a slow exhale, while Kilbey leans into that wistful croon, vowels dragging like silk threads.
Sliding in wrapped in synthy fog is 'The Hypnogogue'. The band weave these long, glassy lines around Kilbey's storytelling between most songs. He delivers the lines with that slightly clipped, theatrical edge, almost spoken-word at points, giving the track this eerie sci-fi glow, the crowd hanging off every shift.
We receive a wild history lesson from the height of pub rock, Kilbey telling us about The Church supporting the Zarsoff Brothers back in the day. You honestly gotta be at one of these shows to get the full saga – Kilbey summoning half-satanic vocals mixed with half-comic responses as he's reciting this tale.
Image © Clea-marie Thorne
Of course, when their 1981 release and second single from their debut album (and my favourite), 'Of Skins And Heart', 'The Unguarded Moment' hits, everyone around me is suddenly decades younger. Fans belt out the chorus, eyes shimmering, as the guitars chime like stained-glass windows rattling in a breeze.
A three-second nod to that anthemic The Angels' iconic phrase in 'Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again?' sneaks in, but it is the interplay of the two guitars that is pure sorcery.
It's like Haug and Naylor are having a steel-string conversation; one is locking into this driving, insistent riff that makes you want to nod your head, while the other is floating above it, making these bright, complex layers of sound. The airy momentum feels like its own unguarded moment, you know?
Coming in darker is 'Block'. Drums punching a bit straighter, Kilbey's bass thickening into this rolling undercurrent. 'Metropolis' sends the whole room bopping gently, Kilbey sliding into that smooth baritone glide.
Then 'It's No Reason'. This one is stretching the air thin again; the guitars are shivering with the chorus, every note landing like soft raindrops. It feels like the band levitates as they play 'Realm Of Minor Angels'. Those guitars arcing over shimmering cymbals and percussive beats, while Kilbey's vocal soften into this feather-light murmur.
Image © Clea-marie Thorne
Then the room erupts the second they launch into 'Reptile'. The riff slinking out like something venomous, the right amount of smirk pasted on it. The drums are locked into this hypnotic throb, the crowd tipping forward, letting that iconic pulse swallow them to the end of the ten-song first set.
Anyone who hasn't already bought their merch, is taking Kilbey's cheeky shove and lining up quick-smart. The rest are already deep in the nostalgia trenches, sharing the memories those songs have dragged back to the surface.
After the shortest interval ever, the band return to make more glorious noise – still looking pretty fresh, I might add.
'Almost With You' is pure sparkle, again the twin guitars dancing in spirals, each phrase chiming like a prayer bell. 'When You Were Mine' follows, Kilbey slipping into this breathier, aching tone that's cutting right through the room.
By 'Ripple', the band are sinking deep into that lush, swirling groove. Kilbey's bass drawing these rubbery lines while the guitars pulse like light underwater in choppy seas.
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'Destination' lifts everything into widescreen. Long, stretched-out chords, kick drum echoing like distant thunder. 'Constant In Opal' is more fragile, almost brittle at the edges, with Kilbey leaning into that velvet-soft whisper of his.
Next up is 'Another Century' sweeping in with a drifting, slow-motion glide; the keys give it this subtle cosmic shimmer. 'Already Yesterday' brings the nostalgia flooding. It is all jangly, bright and hopeful yet a bit bruised.
Then 'Numbers' struts in with that tight, precise pulse, drums tapping out this crisp metronomic pattern under Kilbey's measured, almost mantra-like delivery.
The moment 'Under The Milky Way' begins, the whole theatre is weightless. That iconic acoustic shimmer floating out, synths glowing behind it like a second moon. Kilbey's vocal are warm, yet tired in the most beautiful way – like he's singing to the ceiling just for himself. Punters mouth the words with eyes half-shut, being emotional but too dignified to sob publicly.
'Tantalized' snaps everyone back upright with its frantic drive, guitars racing, drums whipping, Kilbey pushing his vocal into this restless, almost manic cadence. It's the first real jolt of the night; the kind that makes your pulse climb a few rungs.
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The band duck off briefly before sliding back in for the encore and I find it funny that I have tripped over my own feet and landed on the floor, on my knees in prayer pose right at the time.
'Sacred Echoes (Part Two)' emerges like some cathedral dream. With all but my pride intact, I find a spot to watch the end of the show and take in the glassy guitar lines. They are orbiting slow; the vocals hushed and incantation-like. It is its own rapture.
They close with 'Space Saviour', tearing into it with a heavier, more urgent edge, bass snarling, guitars bending notes into cosmic arcs, Kilbey leaning into a grittier vocal presence that feels like the night is cracking open one last time.
When this track dissolves into that final shimmer, a warm, contented hum, everyone collectively exhales a soft, satisfied "yeah. . . that hit the spot". It's an energy only a seasoned crowd gives a band they've grown up with, either in real time or through their parents' record shelves.
Image © Clea-marie Thorne
No theatrics, no fake peak, no forced big moment, just an audience letting the last chord linger in their chest, hanging there like cigarette smoke under a streetlight.
Fans peel off toward the exit. Some still swapping half-formed thoughts, others humming bits of 'Reptile' or 'Under The Milky Way'. The second those doors open to the outside world, that thick Brisbane humidity we walked in with is flipping on us.
Outside the rain is coming down and punters are either half-laughing, half-swearing, but we all are scattering into the downpour with our merch tucked away like contraband.
It's the perfect kind of chaos to walk out into after a night like this – soaked, buzzing, and left carrying those songs to ride shotgun all the way home.
