FESTIVAL REVIEW + PHOTOS: 2000trees Festival 2025 – Thursday

Want more 2000trees? Check out our full reviews and galleries of Friday and Saturday.

To steal a joke that’s no doubt been made countless times already—“2000trees? More like 2000degrees…”

Yep, it’s a hot one. Almost unbearably so at times. And it’s like that all weekend. It does, however, manifest in forms apart from the weather, as on a day where Irish acrimony takes to the top of the bill, it also opens the main stage. Perhaps this isn’t the most apt stomping ground for Meryl Streek—the sight of a single individual trying to claim a cavernous space like this all on their own is never not awkward—but his growling, gnashing, realistically scowling energy puts in a valiant shift. Between his gritty, industrialised post-punk loops and the interspersed snippets of news broadcasts speaking on poverty statistics, the austere backdrop fills the space that Meryl Streek physically can’t. Plus, with his flatcap and bouquet of roses at the head of his mic stand, there are the flecks of an aesthetic that can be useful if main stages are the plan from here on out. It’s doubtful that they are considering it doesn’t quite sit comfortably, but the effort is appreciated.

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San Demas’ case of new-band-itis is a fairly chronic one. They’re eager to please and unfalteringly confident, but the need for a tune-up is blinding. Lucy Parish is barely audible at the start of opener You & I; even when it’s ‘fixed’, she hardly booms. Meanwhile, guitarist Rich McKee comes front and centre to rip out a solo like he’s Eddie Van Halen…and you can’t hear a thing. Even at the best outcome, San Demas are peppy, of-the-moment pop-rock that sometimes dips into pop-metal, played with the proficiency of a band still wrestling with how to break away from numerous well-telegraphed influences. Want proof? Their set’s best moment comes from a cover of Paramore’s Ain’t It Fun, and it’s hard to imagine there’s anything but the song choice to thank for that.

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With sun, energy, bristly anthems and a cover of Chappell Roan’s Casual, Karen Dió’s crusade as the new queen of pop-punk races forward.

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In his long-sleeved shirt, sunglasses and coiffed-back hair, Rifle’s Max Williams presents an image that’s totally incongruous with his band’s sound. Perhaps that’s wise when he’s the clear focal point, both as the most mobile member and the mouthpiece for an unparsible Laaahndon squawk. If nothing else, Rifle’s geezer-core hits exactly as it needs to—with barely a moment of calm that gives them runway to rip through about five songs in as many minutes. For street-punk like this that’s one-note and one-paced at its very core, at least the note is hard and the pace is blistering.

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For the first ‘bigger-than-big’ moment of 2025’s ‘trees, turn your attention to unpeople on the main stage, and see what emphatically does not look like a band still in their infancy. They pull the day’s first significant crowd over here, and an enthusiastic one at that, with its bevy of singalongs and crowd-surfers. Moreover, in no way does this resemble what you may expect from a band with just six songs out in the wild. Every one is a banger, feeling like the pinnacle of what Britrock in the 2010s strived for but seldom reached. With Jake Crawford singing into the stratosphere and the way that goliaths like waste and smother thunder along, the heights to come for unpeople are totally ludicrous to even try and perceive. What they brought with Press To MECO in a past life is finally seeing the adulation and rewards it always deserved, and it couldn’t be sweeter.

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Fourth time’s the charm, right? Last year should’ve been SNAYX’s time in the main stage’s spotlight, though its last-minute cancellation saw them on the Forest Stage for the third consecutive year. Still, they’re here now, clearly hungry for it, and taking advantage of what taut, fat-free punk can do for them. Naturally, it’s the rigid stature of Ollie Horner and his four-string that brings the most there, a bassist who’ll affix a neck-snapping firmness that’s all too appropriate for a song literally called Strut. Charlie Herridge’s vocals and Lainey Loops’ drumming serve as the remainder of a punk outfit that’s airtight at every interval. On one end, there’s the thrashy firebrand Boys In Blue and the prefacing stand against war, censorship and genocide; on the other is a cover of The Prodigy’s Breathe to show the endpoint of SNAYX’s grime and gristle extrapolated. As a whole, it’s evidence for their main stage arrival being entirely worth the wait.

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Don’t be alarmed if you find yourself nodding off during Puppy’s set; it’s not because they’re suddenly boring after their time MIA. No, it’s the combination of heat and humidity in the Axiom with their grungy mesmer that saps you. In more habitable climes, however, Puppy’s return would truly be a great thing. Jock Norton’s acidic voice is an immediate pull-back as it flows through early highlights Black Hole and World Stands Still, arguably the highest peak among the ‘90s-indebted mountain range that is Puppy’s sound. (That’s doubly true when Norton’s guitar stalls out almost completely on Arabella later on, but even it’s not totally lost.) Past that, Puppy relish in their deliberate heavy’s lack of bells and whistles, instead prizing a fine cut of riffage above all else and leaving it to sizzle in the afternoon heat. The result, as always, is pretty tasty.

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The Hunna bring their big, crowd-pleasing alt-rock to the main stage.

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Hyphen has a lot to talk about during his set. It can be as blunt as a cry of “Fuck JK Rowling!”; it can be as enraged as his thoughts on how more effort has been dedicated to vilifying Bob Vylan for speaking on the Palestinian genocide than actually stopping the atrocities; or it can be as impassioned as how his parents, who many would deem the “model immigrants” are still subject to racist abuse. Immigrant Song isn’t just great walk-on music; it adds to Hyphen’s whole statement. So does a set that feels inimitably punk in stature and energy, but wears so much more colour and flavour on top of that. The trumpet player is the obvious standout, for a quasi-ska feel sometimes. There are also strands of funk and alt-rock and, on Confidence, the biggest and most soulful of pop that turns Hyphen from another of many genre-agnostic firebrands into something way more exciting. This is what true alternative vitality looks like, on all fronts.

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As one of the new breed of hardcore’s key players, SPACED take to the Cave to prove exactly why.

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“We are BIG SPECIAL—I hope you’re ready for a fookin’ dance, yeah?” So says drummer Cal Moloney in his black country drawl, setting the tone for one of the most quietly incredible sets of the weekend. The two-man team deliberately rejecting any sort of rockstar posturing would suggest otherwise, but it’s the feel of the whole thing that blankets the main stage’s crowd with something special. For one, there’s nothing else truly like this, a bluesy, industrial post-punk concoction reliant on the everyman poetry of Joe Hicklin as he strolls nonchalantly about the stage. There’s personality by the bagful to HUG A BASTARD and SHITHOUSE, overflowing to Moloney’s dry, often hilarious patter—“We’ve got a new album, and that’s all we’re here to sell. That’s all we give a fuck about; we’re filthy capitalists now.” By the time you factor in the swerves that come from the caustic bellowing of THIS HERE AIN’T WATER, or the pulsating beat of TREES that gives both men the time to venture into the crowd, the magic of BIG SPECIAL is in full swing. It’s spellbinding in its own ways.

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A mile-a-minute festival season for Lake Malice ploughs forth, with their cutting-edge post-hardcore continuing to sound fresh and deadly.

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For this final festival show with guitarist Ben Beetham and drummer George MacDonald, Kid Kapichi are very…like themselves. There’s no grand send-off, nor is there even an acknowledgment until much later on. Instead, by and large, it’s the Kid Kapichi Festival Set that they’ve done the rounds with for a year or so now, devoid of much surprise but still good to go. Artillery continues to destroy as an opener and INVU is as taut and danceable as ever, and the one-two of New England and Get Down is still the perfect showcase of everyman punk acumen armed with a cinderblock guitar tone. There’s also the political streak that isn’t as pronounced as others’, but it’s appreciated to have—a Palestinian flag hangs on one of the cabs, and one of the few breaks for between-song speech is dedicated to decry the persecution of Bob Vylan. All in all, then, not much has changed, but it doesn’t have to, honestly. A little sprucing up with the lineup reshuffle wouldn’t go amiss; otherwise…yeah, still good.

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If you were skeptical about PVRIS headlining—an act who aren’t on their home turf and who’ve been subject to some wild unevenness in their time—join the club. To be fair, they’re ‘headliners’ in a de facto sense and little else, just as any other “we’ve got two headliners today!” event will have to contend with the hierarchal nature of a festival bill only allowing for a single ‘proper’ one on any given day. In any case, the earlier slot feels right—it’s a far cry from the event to follow, but it’s big and refined enough to justify being here. That in itself is pleasant surprise when you consider some oft-levelled live criticisms. Lyndsey Gunnulfsen’s voice sounds great today, clean and fluid when it needs to be, and on Fire, capable of summoning some actual…well, firepower. There’s also none of the thinness that can scupper alt-pop like this in the live field. Backgrounded by the sunset, delicate moments like Holy and You And I sound utterly lovely.

It’s also worth pointing out that, despite coming a mere day after the 10th anniversary shows for their debut White Noise, PVRIS aren’t just recycling that shtick. The lion’s share of the set goes to that album (which is smart, ‘cause it’s their best), which means that perma-banger St. Patrick gets a nice, early reintroduction, and the title track and My House are given similarly ample runway. It means the dips stand out, too, notably how blocky and gurgling Animal can be. But even so, any previous, more malignant problems with PVRIS as a live entity are largely resolved; it’s the material that can’t stand the scrutiny, not the performance. From that standpoint, it’s a cool, confident showing that’s bathed in the promise exhibited a decade ago. Even if the hope for wonders is more a flickering ember these days, PVRIS are trying their utmost to keep it alight, and that’s worth plenty.

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Ever the stalwarts of British rock, Twin Atlantic bring their status as former headliners to close out the Axiom.

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The irony of Kneecap opening their set with the lyric “It’s been ages since we hit the front pages” hits like a lead weight. The media smear campaign may have found a new target in Bob Vylan, but let’s not forget how Kneecap continue to be the head scapegoat for ‘what’s wrong’ in current discourse. The same UK government that will throw around terrorism charges based on out-of-context video clips has been complicit in the deaths of tens of thousands of Palestinians, somehow making the standpoint of being against the annihilation of civilians (including children) a ‘controversial’ one. And thus, Kneecap have been thrust forth as the face of rebellion, a mantle which they seem all too happy to take up. They openly call out Kier Starmer and Benjamin Netanyahu, and mock the ridiculousness of Mo Chara’s terrorism charges and the manufactured outrage caused for simply speaking out.

And while the full ban hammer is yet to be rolled out (even if their slot at TRNSMT Festival this weekend had been axed prior), 2000trees is an environment that’s worlds away from any Zionist consensus. Palestine flags fly throughout the crowd; calls for action and gestures of solidarity are broached wholeheartedly; a statement like “We’re not the story; it’s about the genocide happening right now in Palestine” is championed to no end. At a festival whose furious independence has stood as a core tenet of its existence, Kneecap’s embodiment of the very spirit of punk is arguably more at home here than anywhere. Even if they themselves seem bemused by a hip-hop act’s popularity here, they shouldn’t be, when even ‘non-rock’ headliner kvetches have been pleasingly rare.

Even so, this sort of thing might have been sequestered on the Forest Stage as an oddity once upon a time. Hell, Kneecap themselves have pulled that shift back in 2023. But while it would seem unfathomably myopic to boot a genuine cultural phenomenon back over there now, the fact of the matter is that Kneecap are just an incredible live presence. When they get to their heavier, EDM- and rave-inspired cuts (or “the end of the slow love songs”, as they put it), it’s a total tour de force welcomed by the skull-powdering lunge of Sick In The Head and the seedy beat of Your Sniffer Dogs Are Shite. It’s always been good, but now it’s grown into this all-consuming hip-hop powerhouse. And of course, Mo Chara and Móglaí Bap’s Irish-language rapping is still completely their own, a USP based on the fact that no one even remotely close to their level is doing it.

Still, there’s a little contention to pick, namely how there’s some slamming intensity that a big festival stage can’t emulate as well as a club or Academy show. Parful is an exception, though that’s most because its little Ibiza-flavoured hoots fit the summer air. Elsewhere, though, Fine Art or new single The Recap definitely go off, but there’s room for more. Don’t take that as some damning admonition, mind. On their own merits, Kneecap’s headline status is undeniable now, with enough songs that leap out and feel cut from a distinctly festival-ready cloth. The rubbery bass of Better Way To Live is the set’s first big uptick, while Get Your Brits Out feels like an eternal classic at this point—funny, cartoonishly delivered and accompanied by visuals that provoke the right people in all the right ways.

In almost every way, Kneecap feel like the most necessary band in the world, especially in the alternative world. What they’re doing is exactly punk, and when they end their set with a rendition of Come Out, Ye Black And Tans—a rebel song from the ’60s named for a wing of the British military who inflicted terror on the Irish, then were sent to Palestine to do the same—they know exactly how to do it. Kneecap aren’t the story, but tonight, it’s nearly impossible to think of anything else.

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And finally, to round it all off, a special, silent disco-ready dose of post-hardcore from Dream State.

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Words by Luke Nuttall

Photos by Will Robinson (Instagram)