I toured the Powerstation - and I can't say a thing about it.

An inside look at my favourite music venue with owners who want to stay in the dark.

The hands went up, beckoning him forward. Mike Skinner fell into them, facing the ceiling as he crowd-surfed across a sea of fans while singing the hook to ‘Has It Come To This?’

Later, he danced his way to the back of the venue during ‘Blinding Lights’, staggering through the crowd like it was 3am and the drugs had just kicked in.

He even helped a fan find his missing phone, a moment Skinner turned into a meta-narrative, a story that unfolded in stages throughout the night.

At The Streets’ Powerstation show in March, Skinner deserved a breather before the encore, so he turned and exited stage right, disappearing into the venue’s green room.

Catch Me: Mike Skinner at The Powerstation. (Chris Schulz)

It was then that I realised something.

I have been going to The Powerstation for decades.

It’s been my favourite music venue since I moved to Auckland in 1998.

I have seen many dozens of incredible shows there. De La Soul. MGMT. Lorde. Band of Horses. DJ Shadow. Charli XCX. Gomez. Mos Def. Ghostface Killah. Elbow. Sampha. Helmet. Beastwars. Turnstile. Nas. 100 Gecs. The Pixies.

It was at the Powerstation that I broke my nose in a Shihad moshpit, an injury that required two surgeries to fix.

It was at The Powerstation where Odd Future emerged in 2010 after being banned by the Big Day Out, delivering the best concert I have ever seen and will probably ever see.

It was also there that I watched The Mint Chicks emerge in ski masks, spraying the front rows in champagne while covering Lil Wayne’s hit ‘A Milli’.

I know that venue like the back of my hand.

I have a favourite spot to queue for a drink, a preferred place to get blasted by air con if the moshpit’s particularly hectic, and a secret space to get the best sound that I will never reveal.

And yet, when I watched Mike Skinner leave the stage, I realised that I have absolutely no idea what’s back there.

I have never been back stage.

So I asked the owners if I could take a look.

They said, ‘Yes’. I said, ‘Great’. They said, ‘Come on Friday’. I said, ‘Sure’.

When I got there, they gave me their conditions.

The owners of The Powerstation didn’t want to be interviewed. They wouldn’t let me take their photo. They didn’t want to be quoted. They didn’t even want their names published next to anything I was going to write.

What?

They have their reasons, which we’ll get to shortly.

What they did let me do was wander around a sparse Powerstation in the middle of the day, snapping photos, asking questions, getting a behind-the-scenes look at a venue I have loved more than half my life yet know next to nothing about.

So, I got a full backstage tour of The Powerstation – and I can’t say a thing about it.

The Set-up: The Powerstation prepares for another show. (Chris Schulz)

I can describe what I saw. When acts arrive at the venue, they come in through a side entrance on Nikau Street where they’re greeted by a large photo of a furry dog and a giant neon sign that says, “Hello, I love you.”

From there, it’s past the toilets, up some stairs, then across the stage, behind a big black drop sheet shielding them from the crowd, and into the green room. Inside, there are windows, huge couches, big bunches of fake flowers and a small fridge.

I’d love to tell you more, about some of the shenanigans that have happened in there, about the most demanding artists with the weirdest requests, or the rowdiest shows with the worst crowds, or the best artists that couldn’t have been more pleasant to deal with.

But I can’t. The owners didn’t want to talk, and they don’t want to go on the record.

At first, I was perplexed about this. Why wouldn’t you want to rave about your awesome venue that you saved from being a weird retro bar when you’ve just survived the live music mess that was Covid?

Famous Faces: Upstairs at The Powerstation. (Chris Schulz)

They gave me their reasons, and I couldn’t help but respect them.

Here is a summary of their thinking: The venue is the venue. They don’t want their profile, or anything they have to say, to overshadow it. The Powerstation is its own thing, on its own journey. They are mere guides.

Their job is to make sure everyone who arrives there for a concert has a great experience every time, to ensure the floor is clean, the beer is cold, the sound is perfect, the artists are looked after, and that everyone goes home happy.

It’s better to leave a little mystery.

Honestly, I understand.

I get it.

Perhaps that’s why the Powerstation was Tāmaki Makaurau’s best music venue when I arrived in this city all the way back in 1998.

Perhaps it’s why it’s our best live music venue now.

Perhaps there’s value in shutting up and letting the music do the talking.

Perhaps, just perhaps, I shouldn’t have written this story at all …

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