National MP and diehard Shihad fan Chris Bishop sings the praises of his favourite band’s classic 1995 album. 

Last week I went to my first ever Taite Music Prize ceremony, the annual bash to honour independent music in New Zealand. I’d love to say I was invited, but I wasn’t – I nabbed the ticket from minister of arts and culture Paul Goldsmith.

The New Zealand arts scene, it would be fair to say, leans left. On the night, the MC welcomed “National MP Chris Bishop” then mercifully didn’t pause for too long before adding “and Green MP Chloe Swarbrick!” – the crowd erupted in applause.

So I was a bit nervous about going – who really likes going to places where you get a sense you’re not really welcome? But I wanted to be there to honour what I consider one of the most important and vital New Zealand albums ever produced: Killjoy by Shihad, which won the prize for “Classic Album”. I even wore my 1995-era Killjoy European tour T-shirt in tribute.

Killjoy is my favourite record. Not just by a Kiwi artist, but by any artist. It’s the record that unites genuine, hardcore Shihad fans. I’ve been in Shihad mosh pits since 1998, and there’s always a couple of people wearing a Killjoy T-shirt. They know its power, and when your sweaty eyes lock together in a mosh pit, there’s always a moment of recognition. Sometimes people realise I’m a politician and there’s often a look of surprise; sometimes they don’t. It really doesn’t matter. The music is what matters.

Killjoy is Shihad at their best. It’s intensely heavy. Wall of sound guitars, drenched in feedback. They just keep coming and coming, and when you think they’re over and you get a respite, they hit you again. But it’s almost hypnotically melodic as well. In their own unique Shihad way the songs are laden with hooks that stick in your head, that you hum for hours. 

And some of the chord changes just melt your guts. When I was 16, they used to make me tear up, they were so beautiful. These days these moments still give me a burst of energy, that hard-to-describe feeling you get when beautiful art moves you. The moment in ‘Bitter’ when it goes into overdrive (“Collect the poison as it spills from your mouth… when affection becomes affliction, let it go”). The final explosion in ‘You Again’ after the moody breakdown (“Why did I waste my time on you?”). The mid-point in ‘Get Up’ after the slow build and thrash opening (“See my face in the mirror…”).

Killjoy is the sound of a young band making their way, determined to put their best songs out into the world for all to hear.  I’ve heard drummer Tom Larkin talk about the time it was made. They’d just made Churn (a great record, but no Killjoy). They’d go to work, eat, write and rehearse, day after day. It’s taut, focused, tight. Not a note out of place. Everything is deliberate.

Killjoy is an album without weak songs. Sure, some are better than others. I will maintain until I die that ‘Bitter’ is Shihad’s greatest song (judging from the number of people who yell it out in mosh pits, this is a common view). ‘You Again’ has, as Jon always tells concert crowds, “the biggest riff in rock and roll.” ‘Envy’ is a fusillade of guitars, rolling in like a wave one after each other. ‘For What You Burn’ broods and seethes. ‘Get Up’ is a brilliant closer.

Killjoy is an album made to be performed and heard live, and loud. I was fortunate enough to hear it performed in its entirety at the Powerstation and then MeowNui on the final stanza of Shihad’s farewell tour last month. One song after the other, all merging into a glorious maelstrom of noise, sweat and – if I’m honest – tears. 

I still can’t believe Shihad have finished up for good.

There’s no feeling quite like waiting down the front at a Shihad gig before the band walks out to play. Anticipation, adrenaline, anxiety. Excitement.

But that’s nothing compared with what happens when they hit the stage. The crowd roars. Tom Larkin settles himself behind the drums. Karl Kippenberger normally grins at the crowd. Phil Knight slinks into his corner on the far left. And Jon Toogood, New Zealand’s best ever rock front man, gets ready.

And then those opening chords ring out. A burst of energy. A surge of happiness spreading throughout your body. Waiting is one thing. But listening is even better.

I first got into Shihad when I was an angry 14-year-old boy growing up in the Hutt Valley. It was the era of Channel Z, which used to deliberately play a ton of New Zealand music and support brilliant local Wellington acts like Fur Patrol, Breathe, Weta… and Shihad.

I can remember sitting in my room in 1998 listening to ‘Interconnector’ and ‘Wait and See’, from the Blue Light Disco EP. It was loud. It had serrated guitars. It was catchy as shit. I loved it. When Channel Z advertised that Shihad were playing at the James Cabaret in Wellington at the end of the year, I had to go. It was my first ever concert (as an aside, we need more all-ages shows).

My friends and I paid a dude to get us a bottle of vodka from the liquor store on Kent Terrace, drank it around the back, and went in. Jon came out about 10pm and told us it’d be another hour before they played (which is exactly when my long-suffering dad was meant to pick me up). And then Shihad absolutely blew me – and everyone else in the crowd – away. I’ve never felt anything like it. I wanted to bottle it. After that, I was theirs.

I won’t bore you with the rest of my bona fides. I’ve been to every Shihad concert in Wellington since 1998 and my wife Jenna and I have seen them in Auckland and Sydney. I own one of the original pressings of Killjoy on vinyl (only 500 ever made!) plus every other record they’ve ever produced before and since. I could make a list of “top 10 Shihad b-sides from the 1990s” and debate it with other diehards for hours.

Here are some Shihad facts which I consider to be beyond dispute. As noted, their best album is Killjoy. Their worst album is Beautiful Machine (but it’s all relative). The best deep cut they never play live is ‘Saddest Song in the World’ from Love is the New Hate (the record they made when they changed their name back). Their old stuff is their best stuff (but ‘Feel the Fire’ is a banger). Their setlists have always played the obvious hits too much at the expense of arcana super-fans like me would get into. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about Shihad in the few weeks since their final shows. Those first concerts when I was just 15. Dancing around at my school after-ball to ‘The General Electric’ and ‘A Day Away’. Being stuck at parliament for post-Budget urgency years ago and missing out on seeing them in Auckland. Moshing with my wife. The James Cabaret. Starlight Ballroom. The Wellington Town Hall. Talking about them constantly to my late father, who wanted them to succeed in the States, just like me. The name change. Pacifier arriving via CD from New Zealand when I was in the UK and me playing it over and over.

How unusual it is that a band that I loved when I was 15 I love even more, if that’s possible, at 41. 

And now it’s all over. But I’ll always have their records. I’ll always have the memories. And I’ll always have Killjoy.