After several days of processing the experience, I find myself compelled to share my thoughts not just as an audience member, but as a musician. When you dedicate your life to music—studying, performing, directing, and teaching—you transcend mere observation; you analyze every note, feel the architecture of the performance, and appreciate the artistry behind the choices made on stage.
The Kirk Franklin World Tour Concert was one of those rare nights where every element was in perfect harmony, working towards something far greater than itself.
I was first introduced to Kirk Franklin by my youngest brother, Winiata, who sent me a clip of “Hosanna.” Instantly, I was captivated—not just by the emotion conveyed, but by the arrangement itself. The cleverly utilized space, the dynamic restraint, and the masterful understanding of tension and release left a profound impact on me. This, I realized, was Black American Gospel music at its pinnacle—not merely expressive but meticulously architected.
As a Māori musician, my closest comparison lies in kapa haka. While the two differ in sound, their functions resonate on common ground. Both are communal, both are steeped in spirituality, relying on precision, breath, timing, and collective intent. Both demand complete presence from their participants. From that initial listen, I knew I had to experience Franklin live.
Upon arriving at the venue, it was evident that the theatre was already buzzing with energy. Musicians will recognize that unique sensation—the collective hum of anticipation before a single note is played. You can discern whether an audience is prepared to engage or merely ready to consume. This crowd was unmistakably prepared for an exchange.
The demographic was a beautiful tapestry of diversity—Indigenous, Polynesian, African, Asian, European—and yet, the energy was unified. There was a palpable understanding that this was more than just background music; we were here for an experience that would transcend the ordinary.
The night began with Tribe of Ope, a sibling group whose presence on TikTok does little justice to their musical maturity. From a musician’s standpoint, their vocal blend was immediately striking. Harmonies were not stacked for effect but were carefully balanced and considered. Their phrasing exhibited a rare restraint often lacking in young vocal groups.
Particularly noteworthy was Keylee’s voice—a tone so clear, so pure, devoid of excess vibrato or artifice. Her ability to let the notes breathe before shaping them highlighted her innate talent, reminiscent of the legendary Eva Cassidy. Their harmonic choices were sophisticated, revealing a real-time connection—an authentic whanaungatanga in music. They trusted the silence and each other, signaling a promising trajectory ahead.
Yet, amidst the flow, a charity kōrero momentarily disrupted the musical energy, and as a performer, I felt the rupture instantly. Timing is everything in live performance; energy is fragile. Although the cause was meaningful, the interruption underscored how quickly a room can shift in mood. A single audience comment—“We want Kirk!”—laid bare this fragility.
Yet, like seasoned musicians do, the room found its way back. The ability to re-center and await the right moment to breathe again is an essential skill.
What you’re come here for.
When Kirk Franklin and his band took the stage, it was evident that we were in the hands of consummate professionals. Their movements were minimal; unnecessary noise was absent. There was a palpable sense of readiness in the air.
Then, Kirk walked on stage. What followed transcended mere spectacle; it was a showcase of true leadership. He didn’t rush or over-elaborate. Simply saying, “Auckland,” he captured control and earned the audience’s trust.
The opening of “Love Theory” was expertly paced, with the groove locking in place immediately—tight rhythm, clean keys, and space for the vocal to align precisely. As a musician, I was deeply impressed by Kirk’s ability to direct energy. He conducted the audience as any excellent musical director would, knowing when to pull back, when to release, and when to let the room become part of the sound.
Kirk wielded dynamics with intention—deliberate moments of sitting, of standing, and of call-and-response that felt organic, not forced. His playful approach at the keys, moving through hymns with a jazz sensibility, showcased his ability to re-harmonize on the fly. The audience became his choir, elevating the energy to new heights.
This level of mastery does not happen by accident; it is the result of decades of musical intelligence at work.
As Kirk performed powerful songs like “Brighter Day,” “Stomp,” “Hosanna,” and “Smile,” each arrangement was delivered with intention, placed perfectly in the arc of the night. When the final note faded, I wasn’t just buzzing like a fan; I was entirely full—kua kī taku ngākau—the way one feels after experiencing something executed with sincerity and purpose.
This wasn’t merely a concert; it was a masterclass in musical leadership, communal performance, and spiritual intelligence. As a musician, a Māori woman, and the director of Taioro Studios, this night was a poignant reminder of why I do what I do—why sound matters, why structure matters, and why wairua matters.
My body hasn’t stopped smiling. Thank you, Kirk Franklin, for helping me remember that I am a singer, and I need to sing more.
Rating: 100/10.
