Adam Hattaway & The Haunters – Whammy Bar: December 7, 2024

Adam Hattaway and The Haunters performed at Whammy Bar last night, delivering a maddening cocktail of raw talent, chaotic indulgence, and fleeting brilliance – intoxicating but frustrating, an illusion of greatness that leaves an aftertaste of wasted potential.

Bluesy brilliance meets chaotic indulgence.

Watching Adam Hattaway and The Haunters perform felt like staring into a cracked mirror. Raw, flawed, and desperate to convince you it was still reflecting the fractured image of what it once was or could have been.

Let’s start this off with some unhealthy self-deprecation. In my 15 years putting words on the page, I’ve written some of the most nasty, horrendous shit known to man. But goddamn it if I didn’t put every ounce of my awful soul into all of it – because if nothing else, I won’t add to the senseless droll of pleasing people and resign myself to being just another writer wanting to be praised for putting pretty words on a page. Hate me or love me – the greatest sin I can commit is to fucking bore you and waste your time.

With that said… at its best, Hattaway’s performance at Whammy Bar last night was a glimpse into what could be: bluesy, gritty, and unapologetically raw. At its worst, it was a chaotic trainwreck, leaving even the most forgiving audience members clutching at the few moments of brilliance scattered through a night marred by disjointed delivery and incoherent rambling.

The set opened with I Don’t Believe in Love, a soft, melancholic number that could have been devastatingly beautiful. Instead, it was devastatingly thin, delivered with a laziness that bordered on disinterest. Despite Hattaway’s intriguing grunge-blues aesthetic and Dead Man-era Neil Young vibes, the track never truly came alive. His voice, a maddening mix of gravelly richness and half-hearted muttering, felt like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to move us or move on to whatever gig was next on the list.

By the second track, Room to Breathe, things should have settled, but instead, the cracks widened. The song’s sharp guitar work and wayward vocals hinted at Pete Doherty in his most tabloid-heavy sloppier moments – all swagger, no coherence. I couldn’t help but feel an uncomfortable kinship with Hattaway here. It reminded me of my teenage writing: technically sufficient, coasting on flashes of charm, but never striving to be anything more than acceptable. It’s an easy trap to fall into when you’re used to people telling you you’re good. But “good” is such a low bar.

Then Hattaway launched into an offhand monologue about a video game, how he and Timothée Chalamet were [something something] only two people who had [something something] video game. Call of Duty? Journey of Monarch? What?

So I researched and you can find it here (Hattaway not Chalamet) – described as “a surreal mix of early ‘90s platforming and cult classic Shadow Of The Colossus” but about as appealing as rewatching The Lawnmower Man. Again, why do I bring this up? Because you are wasting my time with your trite, indulgent bullshit. This ramble about pixelated ego served as an unintentional metaphor for the entire performance: a misguided, indulgent distraction from the job at hand.

And then, like a cruel twist of fate, came Good Times and High Horse. And it made me hate myself for everything I’d thought to that point. It was stunning, powerful, tore right into my heart and made me feel alive for a moment. The aching lyricism and its unrestrained, heartfelt delivery hinted at the artist Hattaway could be if he weren’t so intent on sabotaging himself.

In that moment, I felt the gut-punch of recognition: this was the potential he was wasting; not just his own, but the potential of his entire band. It was deeply affecting, not just because of the song itself, but because it was a stark reminder of what we lose when we rely too heavily on raw talent and early praise.

Unfortunately, the momentum didn’t last. The next few songs descended into more indulgent chaos, feeling like pale imitations of the swaggering blues-rock Hattaway was clearly aiming for, but the spark was gone. I’ve been listening to the entire setlist while writing this and… where was this? Where was this music? His maraca-wielding Mick Jagger impression later on was a baffling choice – a performance that leaned so heavily into parody it felt like a dare.

And yet, the rest of the band soldiered on with admirable precision. They were tight, dynamic, and undeniably talented, but no amount of professionalism could mask the spiralling chaos at the centre of the stage. In the most absolutely brutal way, he was Mick Jagger. But he forgot that Mick Jagger is just a prancing asshole without the rest of The Stones behind him to make him a rockstar.

There were glimpses of redemption: the harmonica-driven blues towards the end of the set injected some much-needed urgency, and the closing tracks (I think? Comical Hill and Wasting Our Time) allowed the band to let loose in a way that finally felt cohesive. When the pieces aligned, there was something special there, some magic that I couldn’t decide was arriving or departing – but those moments were all too rare.

Ultimately, Hattaway’s performance was a frustrating mix of highs and lows. It sucks to say this, because I really dig the name – Adam Hattaway and The Haunters – but not when it’s reflective of the ghosts of a musician you could have been.

His talent as a songwriter is undeniable, and there’s an undeniable allure to his presence that keeps you watching, even when you want to look away. But natural talent, as I’ve learned the hard way, is never enough. Without discipline, focus, and the obsession to push beyond “good enough,” it risks becoming a burden rather than a gift.

I see in Hattaway the same wasted potential I’ve seen in myself at times – and maybe that’s why the night left me so conflicted. It’s painful to watch someone who could be great settle for merely scraping by, even if the audience, like the artist, seems content with low standards. Hattaway could be so much more than this.

With what I saw last night, I hope he realises it before it’s too late, and I desperately hope it isn’t too late already. So with all this talk of indulgence, I’ll paraphrase my favourite poem in place of my usual closing paragraph.

I’d like to review them again, and I’d love for them to prove this review wrong. I know they can. I just don’t know if they will.

Oxford Lamoureaux

Click on any image to view a photo gallery by Chris Zwaagdyk (courtesy Muzic.net.nz):

Adam Hattaway & The Haunters:

Arahi:

 

So You Wanna Be A Musician?

if it doesn’t bleed from your fingers
like a howl you can’t hold back,
don’t play it.
unless it shakes its way through your hands,
your chest, your teeth,
don’t play it.
if you have to force your fingers
to find the chords,
if you’re straining to make it sound
like something it’s not,
don’t play it.

if you’re doing it for the applause,
the Spotify streams,
your name on a video game,
the girls in the front row pretending to care,
don’t play it.
if you’re chasing a ghost of something
you once felt but don’t anymore,
don’t play it.
if the strings fight your grip
or your voice won’t rise,
don’t fake it.
if it’s just notes on a page
or noise in a room,
leave it be.

don’t be like so many musicians,
don’t be like so many thousands
of people who think good enough
is enough.
don’t be empty and indulgent,
don’t drown in nostalgia for
your own early promise.
the stages of the world have been
littered with
your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t play it.

unless it rises from your gut
like a scream,
unless staying silent
feels like suffocating,
don’t play it.

when it’s real,
when it owns you,
you won’t have a choice.
you’ll play it,
and it’ll play you,
and in that, you will both be immortal.

but there is no other way

and there never was.

Adam Hattaway and The Haunters Setlist:

I Don’t Believe in Love

Room to Breathe

Ain’t No Surprise

If You Got Nowhere Else to Go

Waiting for the Chill

Good Times

High Horse

Riding the River

It’s Hard

The Magician

Last to Leave

Mercy for the Weak

Salt

My Screaming Machine

Paranoid Kid

Groom’s Still Waiting

Dark Places

Comical Hill

Wasting Our Time (Moa Outro)