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Luke Blincoe, CEO of Electric Kiwi. (Photo: supplied / treatment: The Spinoff)
Luke Blincoe, CEO of Electric Kiwi. (Photo: supplied / treatment: The Spinoff)

PartnersAugust 23, 2022

The unlikely CEO fighting for fairer energy

Luke Blincoe, CEO of Electric Kiwi. (Photo: supplied / treatment: The Spinoff)
Luke Blincoe, CEO of Electric Kiwi. (Photo: supplied / treatment: The Spinoff)

Electric Kiwi wants to lead change in our power market. Ellen Rykers meets the man in charge of making that change happen.

Luke Blincoe doesn’t look like your typical CEO. He’s wearing a short-sleeved patterned shirt and jeans, and says he’s put “longs” on instead of his usual shorts especially for this interview. 

I’m flattered that he put on his good pants, especially after he shares a story about visiting Megan Woods, the minister for energy and resources, in Wellington last year. “I was up early, getting dressed, and I was pulling my jeans on, and my partner said, ‘You can’t wear those jeans to the Beehive!’ I was like, ‘OK, I’ll get my tidier jeans.’ 

“Most days I’ll wear shorts and a T-shirt, but I’ll put on my best jeans to go see the minister.”

Luke has smiling eyes and an impressively bushy beard, which apparently doesn’t require a great deal of maintenance, “except for stealing my partner’s expensive shampoo”. As we sit down to chat in the boardroom of the Electric Kiwi office, overlooking the waterfront in central Auckland, he commits to cut out any swearing. 

Blincoe says he fell into the Electric Kiwi CEO role “by accident”. Straight out of university, he got a grad role at PepsiCo when it was owned by Lion Nathan, selling soft drinks to dairies in Hawke’s Bay. Then he moved to massive multinational corporation 3M, maker of Post-It Notes.

For several years he climbed the corporate ladder, until one day he looked around the executive table and noticed everyone was over 60. “I was 36, and I thought, can I do this for 30 more years? There’s no frickin’ way,” he says. He had a young child and wanted to stay put in Aotearoa – and contribute to the country’s future.

So, he shifted into energy – a domestic sector with room to move, which Luke says he found “an intellectual challenge. Eighteen years later, I’m still learning every day,” he says. 

His jump to Electric Kiwi came five-and-a-half years ago, when the three founders of the homegrown company recruited him as CEO. The idea behind Electric Kiwi was born over a yarn at a backyard barbecue. Huia Burt, Phil Anderson and Julian Kardos were three high school friends from Whakatāne and they reckoned they could offer New Zealand power consumers more bang their buck and a better deal for the environment. 

Renewable sources – like hydroelectric dams – make up 84% of New Zealand’s electricity generation. (Photo: Getty Images)

New Zealand has come to pride itself on our clean green image, bolstered by clean, green, renewable energy. In the OECD, our renewable energy generation of 84% ranks third, behind Iceland and Norway. But on a cold winter’s night when everyone has their heat pumps blasting, electric blankets warming, and dryers spinning, we end up needing to burn fossil fuels to meet demand. (Plus, there’s the issue of market monopolies forcing us into fossil fuel territory – more on that below.) Electric Kiwi figured: couldn’t we engineer a better solution, one that keeps us on the renewable side of things more often?

Blincoe arrived once the fledgling company had attracted around 7,500 customers, and had aspirations to expand. “My final interview was over a quiet beer, at a little corner pub up the road. I said to Phil, “Look, mate, I don’t have a PhD. And if I did, it’d just be in common sense.” And he said, “I think that’s what we need.”” 

While the founding trio had plenty of technical know-how, Blincoe supercharged the consumer-centric ethos of Electric Kiwi: zeroing in on the wants and needs of customers, and then putting those at the heart of everything the company does. Rather than holing up in a slick corporate office, Blincoe is a CEO of the people – he’s an average bloke, the kind who wears jeans to visit the Beehive. His ability to keep his feet (usually in jandals) firmly on the ground helped the brand resonate with New Zealanders and expand fast. Its base has grown tenfold since Blincoe took the reins, with more than 80,000 customers across the motu.

If people are at the heart, technology is the backbone of everything at Electric Kiwi. They build their own software, which enabled them to commercialise a mainstream product based on smart meters. By 2016, smart meters were installed in around 70% of New Zealanders’ homes – and nearly everyone has one now. Your traditional electricity meter was read once a quarter, but smart meters capture usage data every half-hour and send it remotely to retailers, removing the need for in-person meter readings. But most retailers weren’t smart enough to realise the full potential of the smart tech.

“We can do what we call ‘time-of-use pricing’ – the ‘hour of power’ is a good example. We actually know when people have used the energy so we can give them a different price for different times of the day,” Blincoe explains. This incentivises people to use electricity when the grid is more likely to be running greener, enabling decarbonisation.

That’s another part of the Electric Kiwi ethos. They’re big on actually doing stuff to reduce emissions happening in the first place – rather than purchasing carbon offsets once greenhouse gases are already in the atmosphere. “It’s really about giving people an opportunity to take action, not to buy a clear conscience,” says Blincoe. “Buy carbon offsets and someone somewhere else on the other side of the world might plant a tree? That’s not going to change anything.” Relying solely on offsetting to achieve carbon neutrality is better than nothing, for sure, but not burning coal is way better, he says. 

Blincoe also reckons that complacency is “one of our biggest risks to decarbonisation” here in Aotearoa. He sees us as prone to relying on our 84% renewable energy credentials, and as a result we’re just not that motivated to take the last few steps away from fossil fuels. 

According to Blincoe, part of the challenge comes from what he describes as New Zealand’s “dysfunctional electricity market”, where a group of big players create a massive imbalance in market power. These are companies that generate electricity – think big hydropower schemes or coal plants – and then sell both on the wholesale and retail markets.

“They control such a significant amount of New Zealand’s electricity storage, which gives them the opportunity to influence prices more than 90% of the time,” Blincoe explains. 

Electricity power pylons stand in Rangipo Desert near the State Highway 1 Desert Road in Waiouru. (Photo: Hagen Hopkins/Getty Images)

Therefore these so-called gentailers have an incentive to always keep electricity supply on the precipice of a shortage, which in turn keeps prices higher. In 2021 a report by Electricity Authority, an independent Crown organisation responsible for regulating the electricity market, expressed concerns that behaviour by the gentailers meant consumers could be paying too much for electricity – and it could be costing households $200 every year.

This is why you see Electric Kiwi in the media calling out “stuff we think is wrong, and we think Kiwis have a right to know,” says Blincoe. Helping New Zealanders understand the impact on them of the market’s flaws and what the solutions look like has become an important part of his role. And he’s not afraid to go into battle for the little man. “I’m the youngest of six kids, so I grew up having to scrap for everything – and that hasn’t changed. I don’t mind having a scrap if I really believe in something.

“This is an important industry for New Zealand’s future from an environmental and economic point of view. It’s an industry that New Zealand needs to get right. And if we can help by shining some light on some things that would otherwise be kept in the dark, we’re not afraid to do it.”

Ultimately, the “dysfunctional electricity market” needs decision-makers to step in and break up the monopoly. “It’s no different really to what the government did in breaking up Spark, back when it was Telecom,” he says. “Look at us now, consumers have benefitted massively. Cross-subsidisation doesn’t serve consumers well.”

Blincoe wants Electric Kiwi to play the role of your friend who tells it like it is – cutting through the opaque web of corporate-speak to tell an uncomplicated story. It’s a fight that he is happy to take on as an average-bloke-turned-CEO, storyteller and champion of underdog energy start-ups. But at its heart, his mission is driven by a deep-seated duty to secure a safe future for his four kids, aged between 10 and 21. 

It’s home life that keeps him motivated, but also grounded in what’s really important. For Blincoe, that’s “all the usual kind of family stuff”, like coaching his son’s rugby team, or walking his two Labradors, Colin and Roger. Or spending nearly every weekend at the beach with a surfboard tucked under his arm. 

“You get out in the ocean and actually have to be in the moment, have to make a decision on the spot, and have to be present. That’s a really healthy thing for me,” he says.

As with many New Zealanders, the ocean has been a constant in Blincoe’s life. He grew up a short walk from the beach on Auckland’s North Shore, and watched his older brothers and sisters surf during summers at Whangamatā and sail on the Hauraki Gulf, naturally following their lead into the sea. “I haven’t grown out of it yet. Over 40 years’ surfing and I’m still average, which is part of the quest isn’t it?” he laughs

The ocean is his place to connect – to our shared big blue backyard, to purpose, and to family – and he’s passing on that love of the sea to his kids. All four of them surf, including his son at university in Dunedin, who braves the frigid southern waters even in winter. 

It’s this brave new generation that gives Blincoe hope for our future. “I look at the youth of today and it gives me huge optimism that they are switched on, sensitive and aware – more than our era and certainly more than our parents’ era,” he says.

“But our generation also needs to take responsibility for giving them opportunities to be their best and make a difference.”

Keep going!
Oscar Kightley at Rutherford College (Image: Tim D)
Oscar Kightley at Rutherford College (Image: Tim D)

PartnersAugust 18, 2022

Osa and the insides: Oscar Kightley on the return of Dawn Raids, 25 years on

Oscar Kightley at Rutherford College (Image: Tim D)
Oscar Kightley at Rutherford College (Image: Tim D)

As his play returns to the stage in Tāmaki Makaurau, Oscar Kightley sits down with Toby Manhire to reflect on the injustices it tackles, on a dazzling body of work, on family, on community, and on the places he calls home.

To celebrate 10 years of Parrotdog, The Spinoff is partnering with the brewery to share the stories of New Zealanders doing great things. In the first series of Birdseye View, we’re interviewing 10 interesting Aucklanders about their relationship with the city and how it shapes their lives. 

Oscar Kightley’s first distinct memory has him on the way to the airport in Apia. It is 1973. He is four years old and about to move to New Zealand, though he doesn’t know it. “It was the first time I got to ride in a car. I didn’t know we were going to the airport. ‘Wow, a car!’” he says, channelling his four-year-old self. “And I got to go in it. Next minute we’re going to the airport. It was only two villages down the road.”

His destination and new home: Te Atatū, Auckland. He moved in with his aunty and uncle, becoming part of their family. For a long time he assumed that had always been the plan, but in fact on that drive to the airport in Samoa, his mum meant for them both to return in a few weeks. It was to be a holiday with family. But his aunty persuaded his mum he should stay.

“My mum told me what happened years later,” says Kightley, with a wince. “She had just lost her husband.” Your father? “Yeah. It was hard for my mum. She’s 25. She’s about to lose her four-year-old. I know it was tough. I laboured under the misapprehension for most of my life that I was brought here and left here. Actually what happened was my aunty was like, we should look after him. Samoans were coming to New Zealand. It was an opportunity – for schooling and everything. And she went back. So I grew up with my aunty and uncle and all their kids. They became my siblings. That was Te Atatū.”

The first New Zealand memories are “pretty terrifying”, he says. “Not speaking English. Settling in. New country, new language. Being hardout shy. Being scared of teachers. White kids.” It was the 1970s. “Back then no one talked to kids. Nowadays I think we’re better at telling kids what’s happening. Back then, nothing was ever explained. You just did it. You just got on with it.”

Another thing no one much discussed was the dawn raids. The invasions of Pasifika homes by the state, in the name of a crackdown on “overstayers”, hung heavy in the air and fresh in the memory from 1974 and into the 80s. But: “No one ever talked about it. Why would you? I think we were made to feel ashamed.”

Oscar Kightley walks along the field at his old college (Image: Tim D)

Growing up Kightley picked up bits and pieces about what had happened. “Our house, like many Samoan houses, was like a satellite immigration department. We did have relatives come in, stay, and then leave. It was just something I heard.”

When he was 23, and living in Christchurch, a founding member of the Pacific Underground arts collective, Kightley decided to write the play. He did it because someone had to. “There were no shows. No discussions. Not even an acknowledgment it happened. We were expected to just suck it up and move on.” After more than a year of research and wrestling with the idea he completed the script, and a few years later, in 1997, it was staged in Auckland and Christchurch. Tonight, 25 years on, a new production, a collaboration between Pacific Underground and Auckland Theatre Company, opens. The return is prompted in part by last year’s “formal and unreserved apology” from the government – an apology Kightley regards as necessary but not sufficient.

Osa and his mum in Samoa. (Photo: Supplied)

The impact was immediate and lingering. It was “insidious”, says Kightley. “Are we really these people that everyone is so afraid of? No one else had police and dogs accompanying immigration officials to people’s homes. It still messes me up. It still beggars belief, for me, that it happened. And those attitudes are still here. Look at – fuck – look at that story this morning about those poor workers in Blenheim.” We’re talking on the day Stuff published a report headlined “Migrant workers packed in freezing, damp rooms for $150 a week”. He says: “These are the sort of companies that were crying out to let in workers and when they are let in they still treat them like shit. Because they see them as less than human, not deserving of the same respect, because they’re from the islands.” 

Some things have changed, some haven’t. Just when he’s beginning to think it’s all different, he’ll find himself online. “I read the comments at and I think: fuck. Essentially a lot of people don’t care. ‘They’re Islanders. They shouldn’t have overstayed.’ They’re still buying Muldoon’s schtick … I thought, after all this time, after they saw how many Islanders have helped build this place, I thought the attitudes would have softened. It doesn’t seem that way. You still get that attitude,” he says. “Maybe it will always be there.” 

“I’m nervous as fuck,” says Oscar Kightley. We’re sitting outside a cafe in Grey Lynn, another of his stomping grounds, and he’s laughing at his own apprehension. In a career spanning three decades, Kightley has won countless critical and commercial accolades, received a royal honour, and amassed a formidable body of work spanning theatre, TV and film, as writer, actor and director. Pacific Underground. Bro’Town. The Naked Samoans. Harry. Sione’s Wedding. He wrote Dawn Raids and he directed Dawn Raid – the documentary about the South Auckland hip hop label that borrowed its name from the events of the 70s. And that’s just the top shelf. He’s a journalist, a columnist, a broadcaster; he even for a few seasons did sideline commentary for Super Rugby. But he’s still nervous. How nervous? “I’m a squirming fucking mess. I see the posters, I think fuck. I see the dates and, fuck.”

The nerves aren’t about the production – he has every faith in the team led by director Troy Tu’ua. He’s urged them to shape it however they please. So what then? “Maybe it’s because of this piece in particular. Maybe because of the response in 1997 – it only got to do two seasons. Maybe it’s because it’s the first and only play I’ve written on my own.” It’s a story that speaks to an almost unbearably weighty episode in his community. And something that draws on all those different parts of his professional life: the journalist, the activist, the director (the first production), the actor (he was Sione in the second), the writer of comedy and drama tangled up together. 

The cast of Fresh Off the Boat, co-written by Kightley and produced by Pacific Underground, in 1993. (Photo: Supplied)

“I’m still sensitive, still too sensitive after all this other shit we’ve been discussing happened,” he says, examining the contents of his coffee mug. “I’ll still feel like I felt on opening night [in 1997], which is: hearing the words come out and thinking, people are getting a glimpse inside you … Maybe it’s because it means so much to me. Out of everything I’ve done, Dawn Raids is the one I’ve got a weird relationship with.”

He had to be persuaded to go with that title in 1997. “It was a full-on term for us and I didn’t want it to hold fear for anyone who might come to see it. I’d rather bring people to a piece of work and surprise and delight them when they sit in the dark.” And this is neither museum piece nor lecture. It’s a family story, with laughs – “an exploration of how our community reacted”.

Kightley’s experience of the play since it was last professionally staged all those years ago has been in schools, where students have performed the show as part of classwork. He’s felt “amazed and grateful” to witness performances that were “brilliant, hilarious and sometimes terrible. I loved it. I’d sit at the back and watch these nervous sixth formers.”

In 1997 he’d sit at the back and shiver. “I was so sensitive to how stuff was perceived. I’ve tried to make myself less sensitive. And maybe I’m better at building a thicker skin but those feelings are not far below the surface. I’m excited and grateful at the same time. But it’s like somebody opening you up and having a look at your insides.”

Oscar Kightley embraced being funny when he was at Rutherford College, Te Atatū. At some point, he says, “I just started taking the piss.” His class went to see the film Gandhi and he promptly made some glasses in Mahatma’s image in metalwork. “I walked around in my Gandhi glasses for months.” Having relaxed into the role of making people laugh, “I found life a lot less stressful.” Almost four decades later, his final column for the Sunday News concluded with a Gandhi quote. (He also found room in there for JFK and Boyz II Men.) 

In Kightley’s work, comedy is everywhere – it’s earned him fame through the plays, the Naked Samoans, Bro’Town and Sione’s Wedding. But in Dawn Raids and elsewhere the humour mingles with anguish, just as Kightley’s intoxicating grin can tip almost imperceptibly into a grimace, or tenderness, or melancholy.

When he was living in Wellington, working on Gibson Group comedy shows Skitz and Telly Laughs with people like Jemaine Clement, Cal Wilson and his great friend and collaborator Dave Fane, Kightley devised a strategy for dealing with the overbearing attentions of police. He printed out and laminated a card with answers to the stock questions unleashed when they pulled him over.

“We were profiled like shit,” he recalls. “You always knew the questions and the order they would come. So I just thought I would help us both, me and the cop, to move more expediently on with our evenings.”

He still sees it going on today. “Poor kids. Pulled over for being young. Pulled over for being brown. Pulled over for driving a crappy car.” And he’s happy for others to pick up the concept. “I recommend it. If you find that happening to you a lot. It just shows them you know what’s going on.”

A few years earlier, before he shifted to Christchurch to present the youth TV show Life in the Fridge Exists (L.I.F.E) and launched into Pacific Underground, Kightley was a cadet at the Auckland Star, then the city’s evening newspaper. He joined as Osa, but the editor, Jim Tucker, suggested Oscar might work better as a byline. 

Oscar Kightley at Rutherford College (Image: Tim D)

“He’s a nice guy. He wasn’t being an arsehole about it. He was trying to be a friendly boss,” says Kightley. “At the time, because I was such a reader and I loved Oscar Wilde, I didn’t mind. I was like, yeah, cool, I’m Oscar now.” Looking back, he says, it was “another advance in my lessons about New Zealand”. 

“At home,” he says, “I’m still Osa. I’m still Osa to all my cousins and and people I went to school with.” He pauses and corrects himself: to most of his old school friends, and to his teachers, he’s Ossah, he says, as in Oscar just without the C. “That’s the horrible way they pronounced it. You never corrected it back then.” Because it was routinely mangled, “I kinda didn’t like my name, so when I was presented with the option of changing to the Anglicised version, I was like, yeah, at least people will be able to say it. But I’m still Osa. Oscar’s my public name.”

Dawn Raids is back on stage; the Naked Samons regrouped a couple of years ago; A prequel to Sione’s Wedding immersed in the 80s (“that was a real buzz”), called Duckrockers, will soon come to TV. What about a sixth series of Bro’Town? “I’d like to do a movie,” he says, “but we’d need to adjust the tone – rightfully so, sensibilities have changed over the years.”

He hesitates: maybe Morningside is not for life. “I’d like to see young cats do a different Bro’Town. Not Bro’Town but something that’s more relevant for today,” he says, before recounting some of the scenes of young brown kids he’s observed in recent weeks wandering the Auckland streets after school. 

Bro’Town ran for five series from 2004 to 2009.

And Harry? The 2013 TV drama cast Kightley alongside Sam Neill as south Auckland cops. Both were brilliant. It was shamefully under-celebrated and lasted just one series. “It was hard,” says Kightley. “In comedy you get to hide. But I was proud of that. I was pissed off it didn’t go again.” That might have had something to do, he suggests, with TV3’s pivot to “shiny floor shows”. 

It was also exhausting – he drank too much in the evenings in an effort to “wash my mind at the end of the day’s work”, he says. “Your body doesn’t know that you’re just acting.” 

“I had a terrible time,” he says. “I loved it.” He remains available for series two. 

Kightley counts himself lucky to have had four parents. His father died when he was a kid. His aunty and uncle have in recent years passed. His mother moved to Auckland. She lives today in Morningside. He’s a father himself now. His son is three, growing up, as his father did, in Te Atatū. Kightley leans across the table and shows me a picture of his own dad and flicks to one of his boy – the resemblance is clear enough. “Having this little guy changed me a bit.” 

Becoming a parent is one of the reasons Kightley decided to throw his hat into another ring. He’s running for the Henderson-Massey local board. “The New Zealand I met in the Te Atatū of the 70s and 80s had a large part in forming me.” Much has changed around the place, including his suburb’s name. What was Te Atatū North is these days the estate-agent-friendly Te Atatū Peninsula. Te Atatū then was full working class, grittier. Police would roll into the tavern, he says, and pretty much just “bash people”. “That was my introduction to New Zealand. It wasn’t the flashest place. But it was awesome. It’s flash now. It’s got two sushi places.”

He laughs at the idea that this might be just the first rung on a political career. “There’s a big saying in Samoa, the path to leadership is through service [o le ala i le pule o le tautua]. It’s not meant to be about ego or vanity. It’s: can I help?”

He’s up for it, too, because he covered council meetings in Waitematā. “I remember as a cadet journalist at the Star, thinking, ‘this is going to be boring’. It wasn’t boring at all. It was awesome.” The fact that a young Tim Shadbolt was in his prime at the time might, however, have had something to do with that.

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And while he’s uneasy about some of the more doctrinaire or pious expressions around representation, that does figure in the decision to put his name forward – it’s always has. “When you’re part of a group of people that have been told you don’t belong here, so many aspects of your life then become about showing that you do.”

He says: “I hate the narrative of Islanders coming here for a better life, because it isn’t always a better life. It’s not like that’s some terrible place and this is a nirvana. But I always had that drive – especially after I was older and found out what had happened with Mum. I was, oh shit, I’ve got to make her sacrifice, all our parents’ sacrifices, worth it.”

That contributed to making Oscar Kightley “quite intense as a young artist,” he says, wheezing through what I think is a grin. “Probably too sensitive. Now I realise: focus on what’s important to you and it will work for other people.” Strip away everything else, he says, and the motivation is straightforward. “I just want to make work that will make my mum proud and not make my son cringe.”

He swipes open his phone again to a picture of his three-year-old. “I named him Osa. I thought, no one’s going to mispronounce his name.”

Dawn Raids is at the Waterfront Theatre to September 3.