Electric Avenue breaks visitor spend record
The two day festival in February eclipsed the $6.3 million spent in the city by Electric Avenue attendees in 2024.
The year was the first year it was held over two days.
Said team event director Callam Mitchell: 'Moving to a two-day festival has been a work in progress for several years, and we're thrilled with how successful it's become, and how the whole city seem to be embracing it.
'Approximately 34,000 tickets were sold as full weekend passes proving there is a real appetite for a central multi-day festival, and we're already working hard behind the scenes towards the 2026 edition.'
Electric Avenue attendees said they loved the event, with 96% reporting they were satisfied or very satisfied with their event experience and 96% of resident event attendees saying that hosting events like Electric Avenue makes the city a more enjoyable place to live.
Reviewers also raved about the festival, with The Spinoff's Liv Sisson saying, 'Everyone I've talked to loved it. Every review has been glowing.' Stuff's reviewer said, 'Electric Avenue 2025 sent a clear message to New Zealand and the world — Christchurch is back, it's ready for international artists and, after years of rebuilding, it's becoming a cultural capital.'
An estimated 55% of event attendees came from outside of Christchurch.
'This festival truly felt like a Coachella, a Bonnaroo, maybe even a Tomorrowland," said Mitchell.
"The kind of thing you'd travel for, save for, plan for months with your mates for,' writes Sisson. The public seemed to agree, with demand for 20,000 more tickets than were available."
The festival also helped accommodation providers, with the city at 98% occupancy during Electric Avenue, which generated 62,902 visitor nights with an average stay of 2.97 nights.
Festivalgoers partied to more than 60 acts across five stages across a site as large as 20 football fields while using 300,000 reusable cups that were washed and re-used on site.
ChristchurchNZ head of major events Karena Finnie said it was exciting to see the city's homegrown festival super-size.
'We are looking forward to seeing this event go from strength to strength. Callam and his team have defied the negative headwinds that have affected music festivals worldwide and the success of Electric Avenue shows Ōtautahi Christchurch has something for everyone. This reputation helps our city attract students and young workers, helping to fill the talent pipeline for our city's innovative businesses.'
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The Spinoff
14 hours ago
- The Spinoff
Let's read about sex: what are the books that do it best?
Writers nominate novels that include what they consider to be well-written sex scenes. Writing sex is difficult: there's quite the spectrum of effects that a writer might be trying to achieve – from sex for sex's sake (spicy romance novels) to attempting to convey the most intimate of character developments from the awkward to the transgressive. Literary sex, in particular, is so notoriously difficult to get right that there is a long-running Bad Sex in Fiction award that has exposed some real clangers (interesting to note that the majority of the offending authors are men) that rubbed the award's judges the wrong way. When I asked a bunch of New Zealand writers to send me their nominations for books with the best-written sex I got a range of responses. You'll see from the recommendations below that well-written sex includes not only sex that reads as authentically hot, but also sex that can read as authentically awkward, difficult and even disturbing. Herewith, a selection of great books with great (at least in the well-written sense) sex: The Ministry of Time by Kaliane Bradley The Ministry of Time offers themes of identity, ethical dilemma, polar exploration, climate change and time travel – what more could you want? Great sex scenes, that's what. These are truly the cherry on top of what is already a gripping and bizarre-in-a-good-way story. The Ministry of Time's sex scenes are lightly written but the preceding tensions feel part of the act. These scenes are tender yet steamy and also incredibly banal. They're funny but hot, a perfect combo. At Auckland Writers Festival, author Kaliane Bradley said: 'You're either a spite writer, or a horny writer.' She is most definitely a horny writer. And a great one at that. / Liv Sisson, author of Fungi of Aotearoa A Quiet Kind of Thunder by Sara Barnard A Quiet Kind of Thunder is a YA that perfectly nails the experience of first-time (straight) sex. Two teens in love spend a weekend rendezvous in Glasgow getting frisky – and it's clumsy, it's fumbling, there's sweat and elbows accidentally pulling hair and awkward laughter and it's not romantic but it's safe and it's gentle and it's kind and it's real. Reading it as a young and inexperienced teen, it showed me that my first time wasn't going to be perfect – and that's OK. I think the narrator Steffi sums it up best, once it's all over: 'He's sweaty and hot. I love him, and I'm glad we've shared this intense, sensual thing, but ew. Can I push him off?' / Hannah Marshall, author of It's a Bit More Complicated Than That The Safe Keep by Yael van der Wouden Everything about this Women's Prize for Fiction-winning book is beautiful, but Chapter 10 shifts the novel from beautiful to steaming hot. Van der Wouden's debut is a triumph in the genre of historical fiction but also in the genre of sex writing. In this story about a highly anxious spinster oddly attached to a house in 1960s Den Haag, desire and sex comes as a surprise to everyone involved. What the sex scenes offer is a spring of hope and resolution to an otherwise desperately sad and traumatic situation: it offers the characters a pathway that involves love and energy and connection. It's also an edifying celebration of queer love in the context of a period of history that attempted to suppress it. / Claire Mabey, author of The Raven's Eye Runaways Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl by Andrea Lawlor This novel does astonishing things with language. Its depiction of desire and pursuit and sex and longing is surprising and horny and so attuned to the weirdness and potency of those feelings. It never falls into the trap of trying to make desire either all beautiful or all raunchy. Generally speaking I think most of the best sex scenes I've read are in queer books – thinking also of Mrs S by K Patrick, anything by Carmen Maria Machado, Eileen Myles' Chelsea Girls – maybe because they're all attuned to something other than the hetero power dynamic / the default porn norm? / Maddie Ballard, author of Bound: a memoir of making and remaking All Fours by Miranda July 'The sex scenes in this are like nothing else I can think of – so unashamed of their horniness, so female, so oblivious to taboo. The tampon scene blew my mind.' / Maddie Ballard 'I love July's experimentation. It's such a horny book and fuelled by a fear of 'falling off the cliff' – a last gasp before the menopause effects a steep drop in oestrogen and strangles the libido. Such a hilarious, tender book. I don't really get why women are using it as a catalyst for blowing up their lives (it's fiction!) but I do get why so many readers are clinging onto this expression of desire for dear life.' / Claire Mabey Down from Upland by Murdoch Stephens Murdoch's books are about social relations and also, in particular, power relations, and he treats sex with the same lens. I reckon Lawrence & Gibson (Stephens' publisher) in general treats sex in a specific way that is uncommon in NZ literature. Murdoch's influences are the French and American New Narrative writers who are both frank when it comes to sex, and eschew the abstract or the metaphor. It means the sex scenes can often be excruciating or awkward, but it all comes down to power. / Brannavan Gnanalingam, author of The life and opinions of Kartik Popat Into the River by Ted Dawe I'll nominate Ted Dawe's excellent, award-winning, banned YA novel Into the River. There's a wonderfully subversive and truthful sex scene in it which I have no intention of describing, because a summary will make it sound crass, whereas Ted's rendering is mischievous, startling and liberating. Family First, those self-appointed guardians of Aotearoa/New Zealand's morality, demanded the book be either banned or restricted. And it was in our country for a while. In the meantime, attendant publicity and the book's merit saw it published in multiple overseas countries. Finally, the book was permitted in our own land – and you'll all have noticed the dreadful decline in national decency since that happened?? / David Hill, author of Below Poorhara by Michelle Rahurahu The scene where Erin loses her virginity in Poorhara by Michelle Rahurahu has stuck with me, not because it is sexy, but because it's disturbing, at moments comic but in a heartbreakingly sad way, and because it's multi-layered. We're in close third person so it's intensely psychological. Like Ocean Vuong does in On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous, Rahurahu describes the physical acts in a gritty, real way but absolutely through Erin's sensibility – ' He kept tracing [the pounamu pendant] over her body, kissing the places it went …. Each patch of saliva he left on her dissolved the cells so that her body was slowly breaking down, softening into fleshy, brown strands of wet seaweed.' On another level, we're seeing the sexual interaction as a continuation of communication or in this case miscommunication between the characters. 'He shoved his tongue down her throat again. The kissing was nice, but she was worried about where it was going. – I'm a virgin, she said hoarsely. He laughed – Oh that's fine. You don't have to be self-conscious.' Sally Rooney is such a master of this, too, capturing in exquisite detail both the awkward and transcendent moments in the sexual relationships of her characters. / Claire Baylis, author of Dice CRASH by JG Ballard Far be it from me to likely be the only male in this selection of writers on good writing about sex and to wind up pointing to a writer whose publisher said, 'The author of this book is beyond psychiatric help' – but here it is. JG Ballard's CRASH was published in 1974 and remains as vivid and transgressive today. But possibly way more comprehensible, more funny, more sad. CRASH uses preternaturally lucid, sane, and formal English prose to explore the possibility of the intersection of sex and the car crash to heal the trauma of a sanctuary – the dull car – becoming a sudden violent nest of knives. It's an incredible act of avant garde-ism that effectively uses a classic signifier of class – fine, stylised, controlled English – to investigate the utterly outré – uber-explicit sexuality teamed with violent physical trauma, the long after-effects and how they might be healed. Ballard leans in all the way and articulates the concept with what Amis – perfectly – called 'glazed and creamy precision'. The perfectly structured result is mostly sex but utterly unsexy and utterly compulsive. The vocabulary completely non-metaphorical (globes of semen and instrument binnacles), it becomes a kind of abstract instruction manual for a post-Christian, post-humanist sexual healing – access to the sacred – however you can get it and wherever you can find it. It is the pinnacle of Ballard's work after the outrageous death of his young wife meant all other forms of writing were rendered inadequate, sentimental and bankrupt. It's almost impossible to articulate its power and effect; even the closed book hums on the shelf. I re-read it in Japan, aged 24, in mourning combined with a different form of culture shock on top and can confirm – in a state of outraged disturb – only the outrageously disturbing is comfort. In 1992 Suede sang, 'What does it take to turn you on? Now he has gone?' CRASH is a kind of an answer where 'he' could be whatever unbearable thing you've lost or that's happened to you, and the answer to that question could be: whatever it takes. / Carl Shuker, author of The Royal Free
The Spinoff
4 days ago
- The Spinoff
Inside the rise of injectables and the new age of cosmetic tweaks
From TikTok facelifts to 'baby Botox', cosmetic fixes are booming. What's driving the quest for perfection, asks Catherine McGregor in today's extract from The Bulletin. An age-old industry, a new face Devoting a Bulletin to cosmetic procedures might seem a bit left-field, but with Alex Casey's cover story on Botox leading The Spinoff this morning, it's the perfect chance to take stock of how – and why – so many New Zealanders are choosing to change their faces. From a few discreet units of 'baby Botox' to the full ordeal of a surgical lift, cosmetic medicine is broader and more accessible than ever. Just look at the global fascination with Kris Jenner's new face, or the TikTok shockwaves caused by Michelle Wood, the American woman who recently went to Mexico for a frankly incredible face lift that cost her just US$14,000 (NZ$23,000). It's no wonder 'cosmetic tourism' is booming, with places like Thailand luring New Zealanders seeking cheaper fixes than they can get at home. But as plastic surgeon Chris Adams told The Project in 2023, bargain shopping for your face comes with serious risks. 'I have seen patients who've come back, who've had much greater costs managing complications than they would've had if they'd funded the surgery in New Zealand,' he says. Is everyone using Botox? While a Mexican face lift is a step too far for most of us, Botox is firmly in the mainstream – as Alex discovered firsthand. At 33, she's decades away from needing (or wanting) major surgery, but the sight of lines starting to etch themselves onto her face led her to a cosmetic nurse's office. 'Also, every day on Instagram I see women twice my age with foreheads that look 10 years younger than mine and it makes me feel insane so yeah, no wonder I have fucking frown lines,' she writes. In her piece, Alex talks to women who swear by injectables, women who recoil from them, and women – like herself – who feel both tempted and furious about the prospect. As she leaves the injector's office, 'I am bubbling with an incandescent fury that I don't know where to direct,' she writes. 'I am angry at the nice nurse for hurting my feelings, but I am angrier at myself for asking her to.' Selfies, filters and 'Instagram face' What's driving this collective obsession? Part of the answer is in our pockets. As Julia Coffey wrote for The Conversation, selfie-editing apps like FaceTune and FaceApp give people a glimpse of a new and improved version of themselves with smoother skin, bigger eyes or sharper cheekbones. Cosmetic procedures offer a chance to make that fantasy self a reality. And as Jia Tolentino explored in The New Yorker (paywalled), all those subtle digital edits are helping to create a new beauty monoculture: 'Instagram Face', which Tolentino described as 'a single, cyborgian face… young … of course, with poreless skin and plump, high cheekbones. It has catlike eyes and long, cartoonish lashes; it has a small, neat nose and full, lush lips … it's distinctly white but ambiguously ethnic.' What began with the Kim Kardashians of the world has trickled down through celebrities, influencers and selfie-editing apps to become an achievable (if expensive) aesthetic standard for women everywhere. Social media – or something else? While social media is an easy villain, the real driver could be more basic: it's simply easier than ever to buy a better face. As Martha Gill puts it in The Guardian, 'it is more affordable, more widespread and more advertised. Another huge barrier to treatment is meanwhile falling away: stigma.' That new openness is something Alex's piece lays bare. For many women she spoke to, the deciding factor wasn't a celebrity's wrinkle-free forehead, but a friend's. One got her first injections after complimenting a pal: 'She said, 'thanks, I get Botox' – then I looked into it and started getting it too.' One user summed up how many of us feel: 'So many of my friends get it, and it makes you feel like you're in this race against time – and everyone else.'
1News
6 days ago
- 1News
The hardest part of walking the length of NZ? Maybe the loneliness
Walking the full length of New Zealand on the Te Araroa trail was physically gruelling, but there was an unexpected emotional toll too, writes Naomi Arnold. Every time I've spoken about my Te Araroa trail memoir Northbound in the last three months, the interviewer will invariably ask about my loneliness on trail. It was relentless and profound; the book's subtitle is 'Four Seasons of Solitude on Te Araroa', after all. I spent eight and a half months away from home, walking. I ducked off trail for stretches to do freelance work, but I hiked alone nearly every day, often from dawn into the night. In the book, and lately to interviewers, I talk about how I often felt so overwhelmed with loneliness that I would stop on trail and cringe, wrapping my arms around my middle, sometimes hit with a bout of tears. Sometimes I just kept walking like that, too. When I was recounting this at the Auckland Writers Festival in May, the session chair Liv Sisson observed: 'You're doing it right now.' I realised I had hunched over in my seat and was hugging my torso again, reliving the whole sorry mess in front of an audience. Me and my shadow near lake Tekapo. (Source: Supplied) Loneliness, an emotional state, feels physical like that. I felt it in my heart and in my gut. When I did meet people, my loneliness made it difficult to connect with them; I felt out of place and time, awkward and unwanted, and this made me isolate myself further. When I turned up at the Old Convent at Jerusalem, on the Whanganui River, a rongoā Māori wānanga was in session. I was drowned by winter rains and they invited me in to dry off, stay overnight, and join the lessons. But I couldn't go into the room. I heard laughter and yearned to, but panicked at the thought. I could still talk one-on-one. But I could no longer be with people. ADVERTISEMENT When I returned from trail and came home, I found crowds made me panic and eye contact was disturbing and embarrassing. It took me some time to come right, but I haven't forgotten how it made me feel. People alert: Reaching the outskirts of Auckland. (Source: Supplied) This was all new for me. I had never felt lonely before; I liked being by myself and there were always plenty of people around, or at least the dog, if I wanted a change. I came across the organisation Loneliness New Zealand recently, and discovered there are several different related definitions including being physically or socially isolated as I was; and being emotionally isolated, or lonely. The second one is the one most people associate with loneliness: the sadness, heartache, and distress which essentially means you don't have enough meaningful connection with others. It's not about how many friends or relationships you have nor whether you actually are physically alone. You can feel loneliness from being neglected emotionally, from being misunderstood, and if people close to you aren't emotionally satisfying or fulfilling you. But in my case, those feelings were brought on by being simply alone, with no-one to help me process what I was going through. Te Araroa was a psychic shock. It's not just a thru-hike; it's one of the toughest in the world. There was no-one to laugh or cry with after a 10-hour day spent in mud to the thighs, climbing and descending thousands of metres, or rolling ankles over soggy clumps of tussock. Texts from friends were breezy – 'Are you buff yet?'. I couldn't put the breadth and depth of the suffering into a text back. You had to experience it to understand it yourself, and there was no-one aroud to do that. Walking with a knee brace after a ligament tear. (Source: Supplied) We usually associate loneliness with seniors, but research shows only two out of 15 lonely New Zealand adults are aged 65 or over. According to this research, seniors are doing well; this group is actually the least lonely. When the General Social Survey 2018 asked people if they were lonely most or all of the time in the last four weeks, it found that loneliness was in fact highest among people with sexual identities it characterised as 'other' (12 percent). The loneliness Top 10 then included people who were disabled, who were unemployed, who were solo parenting, who had a household income of $30,000 or less, who were Māori, aged between 15 and 24, or 'not in a family nucleus'. Northland was the loneliest region, but it's also a global issue. Drivers across the OECD are migration, urbanisation, individualism, a decrease in the birth rate, people living longer, a rise in digital technology, fragmentation of family, and much more. ADVERTISEMENT There's likely to be sorrow behind the words 'I'm feeling lonely', the organisation says on its website. I found that quite a gentle and lyrical way of putting it. Sorrow, in its quiet and compounding ways, drives withdrawal and disconnection. Grief, shame, disappointment, trauma, heartbreak too big to recognise, let alone put into words – it all makes you want to shield yourself from the further pain of being misunderstood. You feel it if no-one close to you is strong or aware enough to listen to you without defensiveness and judgement, to validate and respond to what you are feeling and trying to say. You then cannot give back to people emotionally either, creating a self-perpetuating loop of shallow relationships and disconnection that only calcifies with time or continual disappointment, and potentially leads to depression. People with depression or other mental illness are then told they must reach out. What happens when they do, but no-one is able to reach in and meet them there? The empty beauty of Canterbury. (Source: Supplied) What to do about this? My own loneliness was solved by getting out of my extraordinary, self-imposed isolation and gradually returning to the social bonds I already had, an awkward and disjointed process though it was. Connecting with relationships old and new might seem like the most obvious and important solution, but I hadn't realised that connection with our own selves through embracing solitude was just as important. And I did have that too on my long walk. When I am on stage and asked about the good moments of Te Araroa, I remember that solitude felt like a gift at times, not a burden. An unexpected burst of happiness would interrupt at the strangest moments, and when they came I leaned into them, appreciating a break from the physical and mental pain. A long encounter with a South Island robin. A laugh with a woman at a bus stop. The perfect song at the perfect moment. Rain on my tent. A kind text from a friend. A sunrise. I cried a lot of tears of sadness during the year I was lonely. But countering them were many tears of joy, too. It was those that helped me get through.
