FESTIVAL REVIEW: Leeds Festival 2024 – Sunday

Want more Leeds Festival? Check out our full reviews of Friday and Saturday.

Ahh, the Sunday of a festival. Everyone’s usually worse for wear at this point, but patching up wind-ruined tents, general lineup upheavals and a fresh bout of grey clouds have further depleted the morale of the Introducing Stage’s punters. Enter Brighton’s ARXX, who approach this unforgiving set time with a commendable optimism from the off. Theirs is an impressively full sound  for just two band members, throbbing, danceable synth lines, Clara Townsend’s funky drums as well as Hanni Pidduck’s muscly guitar and rich assured vocal all melding together beautifully. The band themselves’ surprise at some of the growing audience knowing their lyrics (“have you been stalking my social media?”) is instantly loveable. There are signs—like only learning to play booming new single Trouble two days prior, full choral and Autotuned sections in the middle of songs and a full Dancing On My Own pastiche—that the Introducing Stage is slightly smaller than ARXX’s ambitions, but this set has definitely made sure they’ll never play to a Leeds crowd this small again. • GJ

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Apparently ThxSoMch does, in fact, have clout to jockey outside of his TikTok singleton hit. Sure, Spit In My Face! is the ballast upon which everything else relies upon, but there’s not not excitement elsewhere. Saying that, it’s likely a result of each bit of goth-pop and post-punk quickstepping being much of a muchness; outside of very telegraphed departures like Caroline’s grunge or Get Lost’s nu-metal, there’s one mode on the go. He’s also not bad at it, though, with the nervy, convulsing presentation and big rips under the arms of his t-shirt as the visual shorthand for intensity that…is there, though not in the capacity that ThxSoMch believes. Average it all out, and it’s a performance that’s about as capable as other homemade genre multidisciplinarians, including the same hindrances and limitations. • LN

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“Leeds, is it true that the North does it better?” Courting’s Sean Murphy-O’Neill goads from the Main Stage. While the answer most times this weekend would obviously be “yes”, this is a rare exception. Whether it’s the weekend taking a toll or a reaction to what’s happening onstage, the audience today are seemingly still asleep. Courting’s vocal effect-garnished post-punk is delivered po-faced, with a strange disconnect between that and Murphy-O’Neill’s frustration with the lack of energy in the field. “You’re not too cool to have fun”, he urges while seemingly not practicing what he preaches, even frustratedly urging those near the front to start a moshpit while the band aren’t even playing (it does eventually work, to his credit). More straightforward indie tune Jumper and a high-energy solo by drummer Sean Thomas are the high points of Courting’s set, but a type of ‘fun’ that’s clearly an acquired taste and an Autotuned take on Oasis’ Don’t Look Back In Anger that’s frankly more of a murder than a cover leave the crowd feeling very much underwhelmed. • GJ

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This is, roughly, the five-billionth festival show that Dead Pony have played this year, and it may be one of their lower billings. It’s understandable—in the grand scheme of alt-rock hierarchy, they’re still very new—but it’s hard to miss how their accumulated fortunes and experience are striving for much more. The newest addition to their bag of tricks is Derek the Dead Pony, an inflatable horse to be batted around the crowd during the closer MANA, which, in the language of superstar-readiness, is about on par with everything else that’s made this band a true force. Everything else is the same—the general setlist; Anna Shields’ kung fu poses on MK NOTHING; the Smells Like Teen Spirit interlude—but honestly, what needs changing? As ever, the electricity is off the charts, the kind of showing that puts every second of graft into perspective, and makes it all feel worth it. Long live Dead Pony, and long may they continue showing up literally everywhere. • LN

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“How many of you down the front are here for Lana Del Rey?” asks Dead Poet Society’s Jack Underkofler, one of the most self-aware men to step on today’s Main Stage. He—like plenty others, invariably—is aware that his band are no huge name; maybe they’re so ahead of schedule to just get it over and done with. Because even in the better state they’re in now, Dead Poet Society’s riff-rock is taking no huge swings on the live stage. The fretless guitar is still the main sonic draw, where it makes this heavier and groovier than your run-of-the-mill rock band, but nothing so taxing that it’s still not fine background music to sit on the grass and scoff your chicken and chips to. Hardly thrilling, but also…fine. • LN

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There used to be plenty of bands like Thus Love playing the Lock-Up and Pit stages of old, and it does feel homely hearing riffs sailing out of the now Festival Republic tent.  Theirs is a sound that’s noisy and grungy (so much so that the technical issues clearly faced are more visible in conversations being had onstage than audible in what’s playing), saved from being a little too straight-faced by a dash of sweetness in its vocal hooks. It all creates a nice vibe, but it’s the bursts of excitement from the Vermont trio that make this set. A call for ”all you fuckers to call your moms right now” is straight out of the cloying emo playbook, but the rest of the stage chat is a likeable bout of off-the-cuff positivity. A rare American celebration of British food (primarily gravy) and the band’s utter delight at a person supposedly called Ice Cream answering their call for birthday celebrators in the audience keep spirits high. A slower song closes things in a sleepier way that it perhaps could have been, but all in all there have been worse half hours at Leeds this weekend. • GJ

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It’s always exciting seeing the Main Stage clearing fill up so early in the afternoon; that said, anything other than a full field wouldn’t make sense for The Last Dinner Party. They’ve had a hell of a come up, industry plant allegation warts and all, but today does show exactly why all of this buzz has come their way. The five-piece’s baroque indie is a delectable premise, its frequent tempo and dynamic changes the perfect complement to the band’s penchant for performing with a capital P. Abigail Morris is a phenomenal high-drama frontwoman, effortlessly knowing when to prowl, when to strut and when to full-on kamikaze spin across the stage. The entire band clearly share a love of putting on a show in their own way, busting into choreographed marches, playing at each other as well as the audience, and guitarist Emily Roberts electing to be the only member to wear angel wings (like a toddler wanting to wear their best Disney Princess dress on the family weekly Tesco trip). There are things to iron out, like the stunted transition from Albanian interlude Gjuha to Sinner stopping momentum for a second or some vocals feeling slightly pared back in favour of stage antics. But then again, that focus on the show is what makes this set an electric one, and long may that core spirit remain. • GJ

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The great thing about Yours Truly now is that you can see their gradual uptick. For most of their lifetime, they’ve been a solid-if-unremarkable pop-rock band; now, the strides out of that are far easier to spot. In demeanour and execution, they seem fresher and cleaned-up, especially Mikaila Delgado with her beaming smile and springy movements that give off how she’s revelling in every second. The newfound density in sound might leave her vocals fighting through, but she’s really fighting. There’s the hugeness in technique the pop-rock prides itself on, especially the Australian branches that, through scrappiness and force of will, Yours Truly look to now be on even footing with. The curse of an off-the-shelf identity might be close to breaking; if it hasn’t yet, where they’re going seems far more lively and fiery, and all the better for it. • LN

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The wind is picking up again, and as the light fixtures sway uneasily over the Main Stage and minutes tick past the next allotted start time, the rest of today’s schedule feels fleetingly in danger. Thankfully, it’s not, and Bleachers take their places. Their infectious indie-pop is a much needed warm hug today, made even more so by two-pronged saxophone attack Zem Audu and Evan Smith. Frontman Jack Antonoff is the mad scientist of the whole affair, pacing the stage (sometimes erratically) and not even paying the audience any mind as his band arrange their moving pieces of sound. Eventually he does take a position at the front in a more traditional singer-of-a-band way, but he does seem slightly out of it, the audience having to confirm to him that we are, in fact, in the North. Things are let down by the frustratingly wishy-washy sound system, which doesn’t lend itself to Bleachers’ already spaced-out take on things, but that doesn’t stop Rollercoaster and Modern Girl hitting like the textbook festival main stage anthems they are. • GJ

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You might not know it—hell, they might not know it themselves—but Militarie Gun might be one of the most perfect bands for Reading & Leeds’ rock contingent. On a bill where hardcore is dwindling, or perhaps being sequester aside entirely, an act like Militarie Gun who’ll feed its inimitable spirit through the most tuneful indie-rock and emo known to man are the perfect bridge built. It’s all melodic to a fault and supremely accessible, brimming with no-baggage energy affixed to Ian Shelton’s unassuming look and penchant for hardcore barks amid music that’s borderline Oasis-sounding. On every front, it’s the kind of function-over-fashion performance that gets swallowed whole on a bill like like this, but fully justifies itself multiple times over. • LN

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“Wagwan, Reading?” declares Deijuvhs nonchalantly before being corrected by his guitarist. That might seem like quite a pat moment if this weren’t an outfit that gets into play-fights during every other song. Clearly, a bit of puckish, playful chaos is deeply embedded in the Deijuvhs-and-co DNA. It’s the most noteworthy thing about them, honestly—their Luchador mask-wearing DJ lobbing himself into the crowd is right up there—but that’s not a slight on the music. You’ve got a good nu-metal foundation here, even if its predicated on the livewire attitudes of its performers to get the most work done. Specific songs rarely leap out, though a space in the zeitgeist of cool, omnidirectional rock performers is pretty much set in stone. Deijuvhs is a fine addition to the whole scene, maybe better than the benchmark if you account for a genuine fun factor that’s not hacky or pinned on. Give the output a bit of a zhuzhing up and we’ll really be in business. • LN

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People love Raye, and for good reason. Her whole story of overcoming music business limbo and becoming a wildly successful independent artist on her own terms has been a joy to watch, and seeing her 1930s jazz club vision transform the Main Stage (complete with full band and 25-strong choir, surely the most populated this stage has ever been) is super exciting. Raye herself acts as the bubbly emcee, giving detailed introductions to the songs she’s so publicly poured her heart into. Anyone else who talked this much in their set would probably be told to just get on with it, but not here. Her singling out of individuals in the crowd having particularly a good time helps get everyone onside, plus she’s incredibly authentic and likeable (her exclamation of “do you know what you all look like? Beautiful grass” is especially funny).

Then, there are the songs. Every facet of Raye’s music is here, from pure emotion in ballad Ice Cream Man, her signature gritty edge on Flip A Switch and Black Mascara, and jazzy joy with Worth It. The few features she includes here are completely revitalised—Bed and You Don’t Know Me are made Afrobeats with jazz flourishes, while Prada is a full-on rock version, followed by another go-around with a pounding dance beat. This has been a masterclass in not only performance, but perfectly curating a set for a certain occasion—Raye’s usual jazz-themed repertoire wouldn’t have hit as well as this party-central set – and this Leeds appearance has just been another triumph to add to Raye’s ever-growing list. • GJ

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Kid Kapichi truly are a band for all purposes. They open with Artillery which looms forth like a tank tread laying waste to everything in its wake; next comes the juddering dance-punk of Let’s Get To Work; a little later, Can EU Hear Me? is fizzy, hyperactive pop-rock. The beauty of it all is how clear the refinement is. The astronomical ascent of Kid Kapichi hasn’t been for no reason—within British alt-rock and punk, they’ve arguably hit the pinnacle of widespread accessibility crossed with true-blue alternative might and ambition. The guitar tones have no business being this slab-heavy from who look like the visual next-coming of Lad-Rock Inc.. Similarly, a less mindful band wouldn’t dare load their set with their biggest political bludgeons, let alone deliver an impassioned address about the state of the UK in any meaningful form. The only downside is that there isn’t more of it; these half-hour sets simply won’t suffice anymore. • LN

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There are certain eventualities to some festival headline sets. For an event the size of Leeds, you likely want that to be something with broad appeal that’ll spark interest in most, if not everyone. Maybe that’s even the expected reaction for Lana Del Rey, an artist with a diehard fanbase that’s at least known by the majority. And there’s definitely reason to be interested from the beginning—the opening video of Elvis, John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe impersonators is impossible to parse, but it hammers down the love for golden-age Americana that isn’t being cast aside. The stage setup does that too, resplendent with classical architecture draped in foliage, and populated by dancers in shimmering dresses and a notably ballet-like grace. The aim is clearly for a classier, high-end vision compared to normal headlining fare; it’s more Footlight Parade than your usual rigs of lights. As for Lana herself, she’s presented as the ethereal leading lady, as she drifts across the stage followed by her disciples, voice never breaking from its gauzy, perfect poise. Compared to literally everything this weekend has dished out, nothing comes even close in vision to this.

And maybe there’s a reason for that. Like it or not, Lana Del Rey is a very acquired taste as an artist. Hers is baroque-pop whose ideations of glitz and old-school glamour weigh heavily, eschewing any concept of immediacy. Guitars peel out; bass and drums are firm; quiet piano pieces require pin-drop silence to fully work. And in a field of drunk, unwashed teenagers, that just isn’t possible. When you’re down at the front, Lana’s bubble is likely impenetrable, and the snapshot of its perfect beauty remain pure. Move further back and it’s a lot harder to buy this as something at the crown of the bill. Even in the realms of ‘for fans only’ headliners, this is about as hard a sell as they come, in this environment especially. For Leeds’ reputation as the big post-exam-results party, something as classically-leaning and wilfully old-fashioned can feel borderline alien.

Perhaps it’s not fair to judge entirely on that, but it’s a difficult mindset to avoid. Objectively, it’s all extremely impressive, and the feats of choreography and visualistion do resonate. Put this in an arena played to a dedicated, invested crowd, and you could reasonably call it incredible. But it says a lot when the single widespread reaction is for Summertime Sadness, known most in the UK for its Cedric Gervais remix, of which it’s common knowledge that Lana herself hates. Otherwise, the energy becomes more nonplussed the further back you get, from people who might admire the spectacle but feel the necessary excitement of a top-brass festival act to be lacking. Of course, if you’re one of the people who’ve been camped at the barrier all day for this specific moment, it’s everything you’d want and more. Summertime sadness? No chance. • LN

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Even down to the eleventh hour, accommodations are still being made for the poor souls who’ve had their sets scuppered by the weather. It’s why you can’t really say that The Wombats are headlining the Chevron; they’re on last, but more as an addendum. Not an afterthought, mind, because that would carry connotations more negative than what they deserve. After all, there’s a reason that, of all the indie-pop stalwarts that could be drafted in off-album-cycle, The Wombats always seem to be front of the queue. The songs are undeniable, for one, as Moving To New York feels way too big to be a mere opener; Kill The Director and Let’s Dance To Joy Division are cudgels of pure late-2000s nostalgia; and Tokyo (Vampires & Wolves) and Greek Tragedy even fit the dance stage motif with their synthpop bent. That’s another thing—The Wombats wind up as unintended beneficiaries of being nighttime Chevron performers. Thus, the overhead streams of patterns, collaged colours and logos give the sparkling, enamoured feeling that this band really deserves to have. Even when a brief downpour passes by, there’s not a dampened mood to be seen, such is the enduring love for The Wombats and all that they do. • LN

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There’s a palpable excitement in the air for the final headliner of the weekend. The bond Fred again.. has formed with his fans is nothing short of special, and those in the crowd who know what’s coming act as though it’s a friend of theirs closing out Leeds instead of a Grammy-winning DJ. Arriving atop a huge platform in the middle of the crowd, Fred feels like some kind of levitating EDM god while also being right in the thick of the action. It looks spectacular, hundreds of flashing beams in the sky forming a canopy to rival the Chevron Stage. The light coming from the stage itself feels dimmed in favour of huge bright floodlights and fog machines flanking the sound tower; those packed into the front standing sections feel as though they’re in a dingy, claustrophobic warehouse instead of a wide open Yorkshire field. Opener Turn Off The Lights again.. is a by-the-numbers entry point, but the true magic of Fred again.. reveals itself slowly but surely.

For the uninitiated, bangers through and through are the expectation for this set. That is technically the truth, but the emotion at the centre of these tracks is the real focal point. The videos Fred samples in his songs are projected onto screens, amplifying his creative process and hammering home the human connection angle. Angie (i’ve been lost) and peace u need are pure heartfelt catharsis, while adore u and Billie (loving arms) are as tight a musical hug as one can get. For Sabrina (i am a party) and leavemealone, the floodlights turn a dark red just as the heavens open, the stomping beats feeling genuinely menacing as rain tumbles down. All of these emotions are collectively released alongside the songs’ euphoric climaxes, (helped along by right-hand man Tony Friend), softly guided by Fred’s characteristic empathy and obvious desire to bring people together, getting people on shoulders and singing their hearts out as a beautiful collective. A triumphant Delilah (pull me out of this) single-handedly proves why dance headline sets should be more common here, and as he deems the drenched and exhausted Leeds crowd “the strongest we’ve ever played for”, it feels like the exact affirmation everyone here has needed after such a chaotic weekend. • GJ

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Words by Georgia Jackson (GJ) and Luke Nuttall (LN)

Photos by Emily Marcovecchio, Matt Eachus and Luke Dyson