Half/Angel: Turning Bars into Blistering Altars

Photography / Georgia Andersen

The camera clicks like a pendulum, but the beat belongs to them. Four bodies melt into the heavenly light — pouting, posing, collapsing into cartwheels. They’re decked in shadows and silver. Baggy jeans spill over scuffed Doc Martens, dragging across the white studio floor as they jump into frame. Carabiner keys jangle from leather belts like instruments. A guitar strums, drumsticks tap, and laughter erupts as someone suggests a handstand.  

This is Half/Angel — the band that’s been turning bars into blistering altars since November last year. 

Tūmanako Waa and Everett Parker command guitar and vocals, Beck Halliday holds down bass, and Ishaan ‘Ish’ Nightingale thrashes on drums. Watching them pose is like watching a band conjure a sound before even hitting a note. I came in a musical rookie and left wondering if punk might be a kind of heaven.  

Asking them what genre they play, and their answers collide. One member offers “post-punk gaze”, another cuts in with “noise rock”, while “alternative” and “dream pop” are tossed in for good measure. 

Eventually, they settle on shoegaze. Their sound isn’t just something they play, it’s something they built together.  

Before forming Half/Angel, Ish, Tūmanako, and Everett played together in their former band, Bald Leaf. Bass player Beck joined later, rounding out the sound and evolving it into the post-punk, dreamy chaos they are today.  

Some study at Massey, some elsewhere. But together, the four friends have become a pillar of Wellington’s music scene.  

After their first gig at venue San Fran last December, the band says they were happily overwhelmed. The room packed out fast, and the love was loud. 

Ish says the experience was unreal. “It was so sick. It’s such a blooming and awesome community.” 

That community has shaped them — but they've also shaped themselves. The four of them radiate admiration for one another, which is evident when they talk about each other. 

Beck reckons Tūmanako is magnetic, “I get heaps of comments like, ‘my eyes were on Tūmanako the whole time,’” he laughs. 

Ish adds, “She’s the staple — the center of the performance.”  

Grinning, Tūmanako fires it back, “Ish is just really bubbly and nice.”  

Everett nods in agreement, “Ish, you just like to feel the vibes. You play so hard.”  

Beck jumps in, “He’s like the machine behind us.” 

Ish calls Beck “literally nuts,” adding: "You could be horrible at bass, and we’d still keep you on just because you’re so cool to watch live." 

As for Everett? Tūmanako says “Everett’s the aura of the band ... The nonchalant artiste.” 

They’re each their own force. But on stage, it all fuses. They feed off each other’s riffs and roles. 

Everett says that collaboration is everything. “There is no front man in the band. We’re a completely collaborative group.” 

“It’s like we’re evolving our own music tastes by being together.” 

But behind the packed crowds and feedback buzz, each band member has their own reason for picking up an instrument. 

Ish struggles with ADHD, and it’s only once he picks up a pair of drumsticks that his mind finds peace. He says, “I started beating on the cushions of my couch, I was like, ‘oh my god, I can focus. I’m not thinking about much else’.” 

For Beck, it all started with his dad — his earliest guide into the world of rock. “When you’re in primary and high school people aren’t always listening to rock music, it's not in at the time. But I was convinced rock music was fucking cool.” 

When he started going to shows, he wished he was up on the stage, “So, I just tried to play as many instruments as I could.” 

Tūmanako’s love for music was born in her Māoritanga, where Kapa Haka showed her the beauty of sound. Later, she was inspired by the wāhine around her pursuing music. “I was like oh hell yeah! I wanna get amongst that.” 

Everett plays for his best friend, Otis Hill, who passed away last year. He inherited Otis’ guitar, and has continued to share Otis’ musical legacy ever since.  

“I’m always writing songs about him,” Everett says, “I love playing music, it’s like my favourite thing in the world. He drove me and made me more enthusiastic about the stuff I was writing.” 

On stage, you hear four people play for something much bigger than noise. 

From crowded bars to studio daydreams, they play for each other. For a friend lost too soon. For the communities that shaped them. For the restless kids hammering couch cushions or watching from the crowd, wishing they were the ones making the noise.