Last week, I attended the Taite Music Prize ceremony, an annual celebration of New Zealand’s independent music scene. Although I wasn’t invited, I managed to snag a ticket from Minister of Arts and Culture, Paul Goldsmith.
The New Zealand arts community tends to lean left, and the night’s event reflected this. The MC introduced National MP Chris Bishop before quickly following with “and Green MP Chloe Swarbrick!” The crowd erupted in applause.
I felt a bit out of place – I mean, who enjoys going somewhere they’re unsure they’re welcome? But I was determined to be there to honor one of New Zealand’s most important albums: Killjoy by Shihad, which won the “Classic Album” award. I even wore my original 1995 Killjoy European tour T-shirt in tribute.
Killjoy is my favorite album—not just by a Kiwi band, but by any artist. It’s the album that unites the true Shihad fans. I’ve been in Shihad mosh pits since 1998, and there’s always someone wearing a Killjoy shirt. When your eyes meet in that sweaty chaos, there’s an unspoken understanding. Sometimes people recognize me as a politician, which surprises them, but in that moment, it doesn’t matter—only the music does.
The album represents Shihad at their best: intensely heavy, with guitars that hit like a wall of sound, yet melodically hypnotic. The tracks are packed with hooks that stick in your head long after the music stops. The chord changes on this record used to bring me to tears as a 16-year-old. Now, they still give me a rush—a unique, indescribable energy that only great music can provide.
I can still feel the intensity of certain moments in songs like “Bitter,” where the music explodes into overdrive, or the powerful final eruption in “You Again.” The build-up in “Get Up” sends shivers down my spine.
Killjoy captures the sound of a young, hungry band determined to make their mark. Drummer Tom Larkin once described the process of creating the album: they worked, ate, wrote, and rehearsed relentlessly, day after day, producing an album that is tight and deliberate, with no wasted notes.
It’s an album without weak tracks. While some are stronger than others, I stand by the belief that “Bitter” is Shihad’s greatest song. Based on the number of people shouting it out in mosh pits, I’m not alone. “You Again” has what Jon Toogood describes as “the biggest riff in rock and roll,” and “Envy” unleashes a powerful barrage of guitars.
Killjoy was made to be experienced live, and I was lucky enough to hear it in full during Shihad’s farewell tour at the Powerstation and MeowNui last month. One song after another, all merging into a whirlwind of noise, sweat, and—for me—tears.
It’s hard to believe that Shihad has called it quits for good. There’s nothing quite like the anticipation before a Shihad gig. The crowd’s energy builds, and when the band hits the stage, it’s pure magic. The first chords ring out, and the surge of excitement is overwhelming. The wait is nothing compared to the experience of hearing those songs live.
My journey with Shihad started when I was a 14-year-old in the Hutt Valley, discovering them through Channel Z, which supported local acts like Shihad, Fur Patrol, and Weta. I remember blasting songs like “Interconnector” and “Wait and See” in my room, and when I heard they were playing at the James Cabaret in Wellington, I had to go. It was my first concert, and it blew me away. After that night, I was hooked.
Over the years, I’ve attended every Shihad concert in Wellington and traveled to Auckland and Sydney to see them. I own one of the original Killjoy vinyl pressings (only 500 made) and every other record they’ve released. I’ve even debated top Shihad B-sides with fellow diehards.
There are certain Shihad facts I hold to be undeniable: Killjoy is their best album, Beautiful Machine is their weakest (but still worth a listen), and “Saddest Song in the World” from Love Is the New Hate is their best unreleased deep cut. Their early material stands out, though “Feel the Fire” is a standout track.
In the weeks since their farewell shows, I’ve thought a lot about Shihad—about those first concerts, dancing to “The General Electric” and “A Day Away” after school dances, and missing out on a show while stuck at Parliament. I think about those long talks with my late father, who always hoped the band would make it in the U.S.
It’s unusual, but I find that a band I loved at 15 has only grown more significant to me as I get older. And while Shihad may be finished, I’ll always have their music. I’ll always have Killjoy.
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