Despite being a White Stripes kid when the indie-rock duo exploded amid the garage revival of the early 2000s, I’d veered away from paying too much attention to the artist’s solo work in recent years. I’ll probably rectify that.

When the hall plunged into darkness to a deafening roar, the scene was set. White, clad in black from his sweat-drenched hair down to his shoes, kicked into The Stooges’ I Wanna Be Your Dog. From that moment, his rock-filled, bluesy, high-energy set delivered song after song for almost two hours.

If you went hoping for the usual crowd-pleasing gimmicks, you may have left disappointed. There was no gig-by-numbers formula. White barely spoke to the crowd. He only introduced one song. No local catchphrases or stories were needed to excite this lot, who were caught up in the moment enough that barely a phone light was visible all night.

The fans embraced White’s swaying, wailing energy. His band moved seamlessly and without pause – working through White’s solo work and hits from the White Stripes and The Raconteurs. The audience was handed the freedom to lose themselves for the night, and they grabbed it.

When White wanted mass clapping, the crowd obliged. When he called for noise, they echoed his cries. The few times he stepped away from the mic, they sang to him with impressive volume.

Acoustics were echoey for support act Ratso (who were a good, fun, rock-filled blast to watch), but felt less so as the crowd packed in for the main act. The view from the circle was disappointing compared to other built-for-rock venues, but it was hard to imagine another setting. The towering organ behind a diminutive White, days after the venue’s 113th birthday, added to the drama.

The set played out without pause, pretence or – basically – a moment to take a breath, like one continuous Jack White rock song. It was a merging of tracks, including Old Scratch Blues, I Cut Like a Buffalo and It’s Tough on Rats (If You’re Asking), mixed with a plethora of guitar solos, White Stripes’ anthems and plenty of intensity.

The Hardest Button to Button saw hands in the air and one of many moments of an entire floor bouncing as one. When White addressed them in a rare spoken moment, the feeling in the room was clear.

“You want us to stop now?” he asked to an adamant denial from the floor.

My Doorbell gave those fans no chance for a reprieve from the frenetic energy they were sending back White’s way, and The Raconteurs’ Steady as She Goes provided one of the best crowd moments to witness from above.

When White cut the music, the noise of the fans singing: “Steady as she goes, are you steady now?” on repeat was the kind of sound that gives goosebumps. It built into a cacophony of guitars, drums, sweat and cheers – that became chants akin to a crowded room of euphoric, chanting football fans when the band walked off stage.

The pause was short-lived, with a five-song encore kicking off with Lazaretto and Archbishop Harold Holmes and culminating in a finale of Seven Nation Army, which had the seated punters on their feet, the booming sight and noise of every fan clapping and singing the beat of “oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh”, coupled with White wailing, riffing and standing atop the kick drum to end his night.

And with a few words, a “God bless you, Auckland” and a bow from the band, the night was done.

I’m staying home until January. This is the final night-out memory I’m keeping for 2024.