The Astor Theatre is the kind of venue that holds memory in its walls. A faded artdeco gem turned temple for sound, it breathes with a kind of vintage glamour—the kind that softens the moment as though you’ve stepped outside of time. And on a cool Perth night, bathed in red stagelight and anticipation, Inhaler’s Open Wide tour transformed it into something even more surreal: a liminal space between youth and whatever comes after. 

The crowd began gathering hours before doors opened. You could feel it—the ache to be there, to be close. Teenagers perched on the pavement, eyeliner smudging in the wind. Uni students in babytees and leather jackets queued with tote bags full of poetry and Panadol. A girl sat crosslegged by a busy intersection, blasting The 1975 on a cracked speaker. By the time the house lights dimmed after the opening set, DICE, the room was already vibrating—not from the speakers, but from the sheer density of feeling. 

Inhaler’s set opened, aptly, with ‘Open Wide’—not a lead single or a fanfare favourite, but a thesis statement. The song is wiry and coiled, balancing sharp edges with yearning openness. It plays like a plea: feel more, be seen, break yourself open just to know what you’re made of. On stage, it felt even more urgent—the synths serrated, Josh Jenkinson’s guitar slicing through the air like lightning. As an opener, it didn’t ease the crowd in. It threw us straight into the storm. 

And then: ‘Dublin in Ecstasy’. The guitars bloomed, the rhythm section surged, and the whole theatre lifted into something incandescent. It’s a track that feels like looking back on your youth while you’re still living it—euphoric, elegiac, full of ghosts. The chorus hit like a memory too big to carry. That’s why people fall in love at gigs. 

‘Eddie in the Darkness’ slinked in next, darkly glittering, more sinuous than on record. There’s a funk edge to the bassline that feels almost Prince adjacent, but it’s dragged through enough haze to remain anchored in postpunk soil. Elijah Hewson’s vocals were smoked out but precise—emotionally dextrous, flickering between detachment and desperation. 

When the band hit ‘When It Breaks’, the mood shifted. This was not a track about subtlety. It was furious and alive—cathartic in the truest sense. The drums slammed like a warning. The crowd threw themselves into it without hesitation—jumping, shouting, reaching for something just out of reach. Inhaler’s knack for tension and release was at its most precise here: every crescendo earned, every beat stretched to its limit. 

Then came the heart of the set—the point where lights dimmed further and emotional weight pressed in. ‘Who’s Your Money On? (Plastic House)’ was slow and reverent, unfolding like a confession whispered between mixtape tracks. ‘My King Will Be Kind’ was majestic in its gloom—cinematic, haunted, the kind of track that swells in your throat before you realise you’re singing. 

‘XRay’ was a moment in itself. On the album, it flickers quietly. Live, it prowled. There was a gothic restraint—patient, eerie, smouldering—until the final chorus blew it wide open. In the hands of a lesser band, it might have sagged. But Inhaler’s strength lies in knowing when to hold back and when to bleed. 

By the time ‘Love Will Get You There’ kicked in, the room felt airborne. There’s something inherently uncool about writing a song that earnest—and something deeply radical in doing it anyway. It rang out like a celebration: of friendship, of survival, of all the near misses that brought everyone in the room to this same place on this same night. ‘Just to Keep You Satisfied’ came next, its title alone enough to spark sighs from the floor. There’s a wryness to this track—a sense that the band knows just how much they can get away with. It strutted. It teased. It hit like a slow motion kiss you weren’t sure you wanted until it was over. 

‘My Honest Face’ arrived like a shot of espresso—pure kinetic joy and chaos. It was feral in the best way, collapsing into its own energy and dragging the audience with it. There was no attempt at perfection, only immersion.

The encore started with ‘Billy (Yeah Yeah Yeah)’—shimmering, stomping, infectious. Then ‘It Won’t Always Be Like This’—a song that feels written to be screamed back by people on the edge of something. And finally, ‘Your House’, which played like an elegy and a prayer and a coming of age climax all at once. Gospel samples soared. The crowd sang so loud the lyrics blurred into feeling. It wasn’t just a closer. It was a reckoning. 

Through it all, Hewson paced like he was trying to outwalk a memory. He doesn’t say much on stage—maybe he knows he doesn’t have to. There’s a tension to his presence that’s become part of the band’s DNA: brooding, boyish, unreachable. But when he sang, he meant it. And when the band locked in—Rob Keating’s basslines urgent and exact, Ryan McMahon’s drumming both thunderous and taut—it felt alchemical. 

Inhaler have always been good. But this was something else. The sound was fuller. The edges were sharper. The emotions were heavier. If Open Wide is a record about shedding skin, then this tour is the moment in the film where the main character finally sees themself in the mirror and doesn’t look away. Polished but bruised. Glamorous but feral. Inhaler are no longer a band with promise. They’re a band in full bloom.