Me + your dad + your dad’s second wife went to The Full Metal Orchestra

It was late in the day when I realised I’d stuffed up. I had promised my kid – just a month shy of being a teenager – an epic weekend with his mum. The highlight would be seeing The Full Metal Orchestra and going to his first “rave”.

On the day of the concert, I discovered they were actually two separate gigs – and I was meant to have bought tickets to both. Looking back, the signs were there. It’s clearly advertised as two shows at the same venue.

One Night. Two Epic Shows. Make a night of it and also buy tickets to SYNTHONY: Origins.

A special late-night edition of the globally iconic SYNTHONY experience, paying tribute to the golden era of electronic dance music.

I only had tickets for The Full Metal Orchestra. Not the, uh, electronic dance music.

After some frantic googling, I realised there was no way I could afford tickets for both.

“Hmm, maybe we skip the dance part, buddy?” I said cautiously. “We might be too tired after rocking out?”

“What time does it finish?” he asked.

I looked at the set list and my heart sank. I knew no bogan kid was ever going to see 9pm as an acceptable bedtime.

It was an unusual set-up for a gig:

6:00pm: Doors open
6:15pm: Jon Toogood (solo acoustic)
7:15pm: Full Metal Orchestra
9:00pm: Everyone leaves and, if they have tickets for Synthony Origins, they come back in after spending an hour outside the stadium
10:00pm: Doors open (again)
10:00pm: Dick Johnson & Bevan Keys
10:30pm: Sneaky Sound System
11:30pm: SYNTHONY
1:00am: Home

So I did what any writer mum would do – I tried to score not one but two free tickets. I figured the chances were slim to none. But then I was told I could pick them up from the box office.

And if I was feeling guilty about it, that vanished the second I saw they weren’t just free tickets – they were media passes, which meant we didn’t have to queue.

My son looked at me in awe, and I knew that (for this weekend at least) I had sealed my place as the favourite parent.

Drunk with power, he flashed his media pass everywhere we went. And before we knew it, we were right up the front – exactly where he wanted to be.

Possibly not where his surgeon (who had him on the table two weeks ago) thought he should be, but you can’t keep a good bogan kid down.

Spark Arena’s general admission area was still mostly empty when Shihad frontman Jon Toogood started his acoustic set.

It felt intimate - Just a guy who has aged like fine wine, his guitar, and a massive stadium of drunk boomers.

Toogood, at 52, still absolutely has his voice – powerful, strong, and commanding.

In pure Kiwi fashion, Toogood didn’t know all of the lyrics to Bliss and neither did anyone in the crowd so he joked through them. Your dad had arrived and thought this was hilarious and yelled that Toogood should “put his cock back in his undies” which had me reflecting (briefly) on the drinking culture in this country.

But then, tragedy. I thought your dad was going to drop dead when Toogood started Dragon’s divorced dad anthem Don’t You Go Out in the Rain.

When I say that he lost his mind it’s not visceral enough. He was screaming IF YOU GO OUT IN THE RAIN with a passion his wife (now on the Pals because she was drunk enough not to taste them) had never seen.

All the songs Toogood played were vaguely familiar – a perfect set for getting on it. The crowd loved Victoria, and he sounds better than Jordan Luck singing it.

He closed with the national anthem Home Again, sharing how he used to change the first line every night.

Oh so that’s what “put your cock back in your undies” means…

And just like that, we were warmed up and ready for the Auckland Philharmonia, the Come Together band, and the guest artists – including bogan royalty Phil Rudd, formerly of AC/DC.

As the 29-piece classical orchestra filed in, it was a thrill to be right up front to witness their palpable excitement.

Billed as a “symphonic assault”, I was keen to see what New Zealand’s largest professional symphony orchestra would do with Slayer’s Raining Blood.

Led by acclaimed Australian conductor Sarah-Grace Williams in leather pants, everyone seemed genuinely chuffed to be there.

And then it was all on with Metallica. EJ Barnes, daughter of bogan icon Jimmy Barnes, stalked onto the stage in a black cloak as the infamous Number of the Beast intro began. My kid was frothing.

I was waiting for Devilskin’s Jennie Skulander – an absolute powerhouse – and she did not disappoint. She tore through that Led Zep song we all know but can’t remember because it’s not Whole Lotta Love.

Just as I thought we needed to hear more of the orchestra, they actually delivered Whole Lotta Love – this time with Pōneke vocalist Seamus Johnson. Channelling Plant’s orgasmic squeals perfectly, he slipped effortlessly into the shoes of Bon Scott, Axl Rose and seemingly every other mega metal frontman.

It was like bogan karaoke – except everyone on stage was wildly talented. The crowd was full of leathers-at-their-wedding uncles and Stevie Nicks-inspired aunties, and the singalongs were massive. Just fun and silly.

Milan Borich of Pluto singing Deftones’ Change had me and the other cougars sexually objectifying him in ways I won’t commit to print.

The orchestra shone on System of a Down’s Aerials and Tool’s Sober which seemed like a plea to the aunty behind me who spilled her smuggled-in Jack and Coke all over my goth Crocs.

A proper reviewer would probably talk about technique. I can only tell you the vibes were immaculate.

If I had one gripe, it’d be the lulls between songs. There was no host, no transitions. Singers just disappeared into the dark. But really, it’s a small complaint.

By the time the finale arrived, it felt like The Full Metal Orchestra had finished far too soon.

Growing up in Australia in the 80s, I had to hear It’s a Long Way to the Shop If You Want a Sausage Roll more times than anyone deserves. I was thinking that For Those About to Rock would have been a better finale – until the bagpipers came out.

Look, I absolutely lost my shit then. It was so fun and so ridiculous. You just couldn’t help but lean in.

The Sweet Child O’ Mine actually danced with his dear old mum, and the pure delight on the pipers’ faces made the whole night worth it.

All in all – a novelty, sure – but also a genuinely joyful celebration of the songs that mean so much to those of us who grew up sleeping in cars while our parents partied. And to the next generation, now forced to endure their own parents singing Poison to each other on Saturday nights.

As for the second half? Turns out we were too tired from rocking out. Nothing kills a buzz quite like standing outside in the cold waiting to dance again.

Our staying power was weak – but our spirit was strong. My son played War Pigs on repeat on the walk home.

But this time it was Jon Toogood singing. His new guitar hero.

And somewhere I could hear your dad faintly singing into the night - “yaaaaa yaaaa ya ya yaaaaaah fuggadabaddalaswaaan”

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