Review and photos by Tania Graham-Brown.
The Wombats hit Sydney last night like a confetti cannon of cortisol and catharsis. No grand concept, no theatrical set pieces, just precision chaos: neon strobes, trampolining basslines, and choruses engineered to be screamed back with pint-glass sincerity. The band is currently in Australia playing new tracks from their acclaimed sixth studio album, Oh! The Ocean, as well as material near and dear to fans’ hearts.
They opened fast and nervy, stitching together the early-era sugar rush with the sleeker, synth-polished cuts of recent years. “Kill the Director” still lands like a group text from your messiest friend, while “If You Ever Leave, I’m Coming With You” flexes their grown-up knack for making anxiety sound like a victory lap. “Greek Tragedy” remains the night’s communal exorcism, thousands of voices belting that hook, the room briefly levitating. And when “Let’s Dance to Joy Division” turns up, it’s Pavlovian.
Matthew Murphy’s delivery is bendy and wry as ever, half eye-roll, half open vein and the rhythm section is a clinic. Dan Haggis plays drums like a frontman who happened to sit down; Tord Øverland Knudsen’s bass is the secret lead guitar, ricocheting around Murphy’s neon melodies. The band’s trick has always been emotional whiplash, lyrics that cut with a grin, set to beats that dare you to stop moving. Live, that paradox feels medicinal.
Credit too to Bea and Her Business, who set the table with an unfussy, dialled-in support set. She let the songs do the talking: intimate, high-gloss pop that blooms under stage lights, all clean melodies and pressure-valve choruses. There’s a quiet steel in her presence, the kind that hints at bigger rooms without begging for them.
For The Wombats, production stayed in the sweet spot: enough LED punch to silhouette those pogoing choruses, never so busy it smothered the band’s scruffy heart. Crowd energy rode the redline from the first synth stab, with the floor acting like a single organism, jumping, shouting, laughing at in-jokes they learned a decade ago and still love. That’s the thing about The Wombats, they’ve outlived the blog-era hype cycle by making sharp, nervy pop that remembers to be fun.
By the time the encore hit, the room felt rinsed and grateful. The Wombats didn’t reinvent themselves; they just reminded everyone why they’re still here, tight, generous, and as good as they ever were. Bea left a calling card; The Wombats stamped the passport. If you needed proof that indie dance-floors can still feel like church, last night in Sydney was your sermon.
