The conceit sees four Maori men trapped in an antechamber to the afterlife, unable to leave until they sing their truth. Unresolved emotions hold them in limbo and their stories are revealed through laid-back, often self-deprecating comic shtick.

There’s a cover-band singer who died of a broken heart, lacking the confidence to reveal his love; and a Second World War veteran whose war experience included a queer romance in the field – a secret he took to his grave.

Between loves lost or undeclared lies a man whose boyhood embrace of Maori language and culture gets curdled into self-loathing, brought on by discrimination and forced cultural assimilation. And finally, there’s a bright young spark – the first of his family to go to university – extinguished by the stresses of life in the city, his consuming anxiety memorably embodied through an intimidating haka, a Maori dance.

The last, at least, gets a second chance to carry the torch forward. There isn’t a heart in the audience that won’t light up at this brilliant mix of honeyed harmony and knockabout comedy, which purges cruelty by celebrating a unique culture with superb artistry and an infectious sense of joy.