Hold onto your Akubras and Ugg boots, Antipodean dreamers, because the Outback just got an injection of pure, unfiltered Americana that’ll make the kangaroos hop to a twangy beat and the kiwis croon along like they’ve got sawdust in their souls. On September 24, 2025—mere hours after the world woke up to another scorcher of a spring day—Blake Shelton, the gravel-voiced Oklahoma outlaw who’s slinging more heartbreak anthems than a jilted bartender, detonated a seismic announcement that’s got Australia and New Zealand buzzing louder than a didgeridoo in a dust storm. Behold: The Coming Home Tour 2026, Blake’s triumphant Down Under invasion kicking off in March, isn’t just a gig—it’s a full-throttle, genre-smashing extravaganza headlined by the man himself, with a lineup so stacked it could eclipse the Sydney Opera House: Carrie Underwood, the Oklahoma firecracker who’s shattered more glass ceilings than a Category 5 cyclone; Kelly Clarkson, the Texas tornado whose powerhouse pipes could level Uluru; and Michael Bublé, the Vancouver velvet crooner whose swingin’ charm turns mosh pits into midnight ballrooms. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill stadium stomp; it’s a sonic safari blending country grit with pop polish and jazz swagger, promising duets that’ll drip with sweat, tears, and enough star power to light up the entire Coral Sea. Tickets drop to the public like manna from a monster truck on Monday, September 29 at 11 a.m. local time—mark your diaries or risk weeping into your flat white—but for those golden few, presales and VIP packages (think front-row fever and backstage barbies) ignite Thursday, September 25 at 10 a.m. local for Blake’s elite Gold Members. In a world where tours fizzle faster than a barbie in the rain, this quartet’s collision course Down Under is the musical meteor strike we’ve been craving—get ready to scream, swoon, and sell your left kidney for a seat, because when these icons collide, the only survivors are the lucky ones with tickets in hand.

Flashback to the fever dream that birthed this beast: Blake Shelton, 49 and fiercer than a feral cat in a fiddle contest, hasn’t been idle since waving adios to The Voice coaching chair after 23 seasons of blind auditions and blind-sided heartaches. Fresh off a Vegas residency that packed the Colosseum like sardines in a sunhat—where he belted “Home” (that Bublé cover he made his own, natch) to sold-out sobs—he’s been teasing a “homecoming” jaunt that’s less farewell and more fiery rebirth. “Australia and New Zealand? Y’all stole my heart back in 2013,” Blake drawled in a video drop that hit his socials like a boomerang at Mach speed, his signature red Solo cup raised in a toast that’s equal parts twang and triumph. That ’13 tour? A scorcher that scorched charts from Perth to Auckland, with Blake slinging “Boys ‘Round Here” to beer-soaked beaches and “God’s Country” to granite-hewn harbors. But this? This is evolution on steroids. Teaming with Carrie Underwood—the Idol phenom turned phenom-queen, whose “Before He Cheats” still has Nashville nodding in vengeful approval—promises a country core that’ll quake the foundations of every arena from Brisbane to Wellington. Carrie’s been on a tear: Her 2025 gospel-gone-glam Denim & Grace album just snagged a Grammy whisper, and fresh from that tear-jerking Opry bow to Willie Nelson, she’s primed to unleash “Cry Pretty” runs that could crack the Harbour Bridge.

Enter Kelly Clarkson, the wildcard wildfire who’s been Blake’s sparring partner since their Voice days, trading barbs and ballads like old flames fanning embers. At 43, Kelly’s no stranger to Down Under domination—her 2019 cruise-ship spectacular docked in Sydney Harbour with fireworks that rivaled New Year’s Eve—but this tour’s her ticket to trade yacht-rock for yakka vibes. “Blake roped me in with promises of Tim Tams and terrible karaoke,” she quipped in a TikTok teaser that’s already racked 10 million views, her powerhouse belter previewing a mashup of “Since U Been Gone” and Blake’s “Neon Light” that’ll have fans feral from Fremantle to Fiji. And then, the curveball crooner: Michael Bublé, 50 and smoother than a sauv blanc sunset, whose jazz-infused jaunts have long blurred the lines between supper clubs and stadiums. Blake’s 2008 cover of Bublé’s “Home”—a chart-topping tearjerker that turned country ears to swing—makes this pairing poetic justice. “Mickey’s the brother I never had,” Blake gushed in the announcement clip, cutting to a mock-rehearsal where the duo duels over “Feeling Good,” Bublé’s scat slicing through Shelton’s twang like a butter knife through pavlova. Bublé, riding high on his Higher tour’s holiday high (think Vegas Noel with a naughty twist), adds that urbane sparkle: Expect “Haven’t Met You Yet” fused with “Honey Bee,” turning tailgate anthems into tuxedo tangoes.

The itinerary? A blistering blitz across the breadth of the Pacific playground, hitting nine nights in six cities that read like a Greatest Hits of God’s Own Country and the Land of the Long White Cloud. It kicks off March 6 at Brisbane Entertainment Centre—a 13,000-seat behemoth where the humid heat’ll have sweat flying like confetti during Carrie’s “Blown Away” cyclone. March 8-9 doubles down in Sydney’s Qudos Bank Arena, that gleaming colossus by the harbor where the Harbour Bridge backdrop begs for Blake’s “Hillbilly Bone” bone-rattlers. Melbourne’s Rod Laver Arena gets the treatment on March 12-13, the tennis temple transformed into a twang tabernacle, with Kelly’s “Stronger” shaking the rafters like a Serena smash. Adelaide Entertainment Centre on March 16? A cozier crush at 12,000 capacity, perfect for intimate interludes like Bublé’s “Everything” crooned to a crowd close enough to catch the cologne. Perth’s RAC Arena falls on March 19, the isolated oasis where the desert wind whispers through “Austin,” Blake’s debut No. 1 that’ll have West Aussies weeping for their own wide-open spaces. Then, the Kiwi crescendo: Auckland’s Spark Arena on March 24-25, that harborside hive buzzing with 12,000 souls ready for Underwood’s “Church Bells” to toll like Big Ben Down Under. Christchurch’s Wolfsbane on March 27 wraps it—a resilient rebirth for the ‘Quake City, with the supergroup’s harmonies healing old wounds under Southern Cross stars. Each show’s a three-hour thrill ride: Blake anchoring with his barn-burner band, the ladies and Bublé rotating for rotating duets—imagine Carrie and Kelly’s “Because of You” gut-punch, or Blake and Bublé’s “Home” home-run—that’ll leave you hoarse and healed.

But darling, the real rodeo? The ticket tango that’s already turning ticketmaster into a battlefield. Presales fire up Thursday, September 25 at 10 a.m. local for Blake’s Gold Members—those loyal legends who’ve shelled for the fan club since his Red River Blue days—offering first dibs on the prime pasture: Floor seats that’ll vibrate with every boot-stomp, VIP packages laced with pre-show soundchecks (picture high-fiving Kelly mid-vocal warm-up), exclusive merch drops (think co-branded Akubra hats etched with “Down Under Duet”), and post-gig meet-and-greets where Blake might just autograph your stub with a Sharpie-scrawled “Yee-haw, mate.” Public onslaught hits Monday, September 29 at 11 a.m. local—Brisbane’s at AEST, Perth’s trailing in AWST like a hungover koala—but beware the blackout: Servers crashed harder than a hangover in ’13’s debut Down Under dash, with scalpers slinging seats for double digits before the ink dried. Prices? Entry-level nosebleeds start at AUD $99 (that’s about NZD $110 for our Kiwi kin), climbing to premium pits at $299, with VIPs vaulting to $799 for the full fantasy. Dynamic pricing? Expect the algorithm to arm-wrestle your wallet—hot dates like Sydney’s doubleheader could spike 20% in the frenzy. Pro tips from the pros: Download the Ticketek app (Aussie overlord) or Ticketmaster NZ now; set alarms for multiple cities if you’re chasing a multi-night marathon; and for God’s sake, carpool—traffic to Rod Laver’ll rival a cattle drive in peak hour. Fan forums are already frothing: “Sold my surfboard for Sydney seats—who needs waves when you’ve got Shelton?” one Brissie bloke blasted on Reddit, while a Kiwi superfangirl vowed, “Auckland or bust—taking the whole whanau!”

The hype? It’s a hurricane, honey. Socials are ablaze: #ComingHomeTour2026 exploding with 2 million mentions overnight, fan edits splicing Blake’s “God’s Country” over drone shots of the Outback, Carrie’s “Cowboy Casanova” synced to Sydney skyline timelapses, Kelly’s “Miss Independent” mashed with Maori haka clips, and Bublé’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” waltzing with waltzing matildas. Nashville’s nodding north: Miranda Lambert (Blake’s ex turned eternal ally) dropped a cryptic “Proud of ya, cowboy—give ’em hell Down Under,” while Carrie teased a “secret collab” that’ll “make the vegemite jealous.” Pundits predict platinum pandemonium: Frontier Touring, the outfit orchestrating this opus, forecasts 150,000 tickets shifted in Week 1, eclipsing Shelton’s ’13 haul and rivaling U2’s ’23 Aussie apocalypse. Why the frenzy? In a post-pandemic playlist purgatory, this tour’s a tonic: Four titans trading verses in venues that vibe from coastal cool to inland inferno, promising not just songs but stories—Blake’s barroom confessions, Carrie’s comeback grit, Kelly’s knockout catharsis, Bublé’s big-band buoyancy. It’s the ultimate escape pod from the daily drudge, a three-hour teleport to a world where the only bills are the ones on stage.

As the clock ticks toward presale pandemonium, one truth twangs louder than a Telecaster through a Marshall: Coming Home Tour 2026 isn’t invading Australia and New Zealand—it’s igniting them. Blake Shelton, ever the everyman emperor, is bringing his backyard barbecue to your backyard blockbuster, with Carrie, Kelly, and Michael as the uninvited guests who steal the show. March can’t come soon enough; until then, crank the playlists, practice your air guitar (or didge, for authenticity), and pray your WiFi holds when the sales siren sings. This ain’t a tour; it’s a takeover—a harmonious hurricane that’ll leave the Land of the Southern Cross singing Shelton’s siren song for seasons to come. Who’s snagging that golden ticket? The race is on, mates—may the fastest finger (and deepest wallet) win. Yee-haw from the top end to the tail end: Welcome home, Blake. Now, let’s make some noise that’ll echo to eternity.