FESTIVAL REVIEW + PHOTOS: 2000trees Festival 2025 – Friday

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

Maybe it’s the recent signing to Church Road that’s given them some more pep in their step, but Mallavora today seem noticeably far removed from being your typical main stage greenhorns. It’s the most full and fierce they’ve ever sounded, flexing their occasional Spiritbox comparisons with some commendable heaviness and a singing-to-screaming transition from Jessica Douek that’s practically flawless. Even with between-song chatter that’s a little more stilted than usual (and probably where most of the nerves manifest), it’s a considerable leap that Mallavora have made onto what’s, without question, the biggest stage they’ve hit to date. A sign of great things to come, surely.

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As a pure punk band, Split Dogs are solid; as a band with more in the chamber, they’re vastly superior. What might initially read as a quick-and-fast tonic for the late-morning cobwebs becomes more when vocalist Harry steps onstage, clad in a sparkly, frilled leotard and leggings for a shock of glam-rock amid the band’s grotty, bruising spirit. To say there’s a drag queen-esque style to it is meant with the greatest possible praise; they’re clearly having the time of their life. As hoarse vocals roar and collide with themselves, and short songs are rattled through with no airs and graces, the breath of fresh air bestowed upon this tried-and-true pub-punk is unmistakable, and a total winner.

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Over on the Forest Stage, Spare Kid strip their pop-punk down for a special acoustic showcase.

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Jools co-vocalist Mitchell Gordon begins his half-hour onstage stomping in place like he’s trying to break a hole in it. He follows that by tromping back and forth like he’s entered a room and can’t remember why. He’s also just one component of the twelve-legged outfit of Jools, each of whom seem to have their own non-simpatico quirks, but still manage to pull it all together. On the post-punk spectrum, Jools are firmly and thoroughly on the ‘punk’ end. Great basslines remain, of course, but there’s tangible anger and combustibility that’s a far greater commodity. When other vocalist Kate Price gives her impassioned polemic about violence towards women before 97%, it’s perhaps the most bluntly rage-filled display the main stage will see all weekend. It almost overshadows the rest of Jools’ performance, but not quite. For a band this captivating at their core, that’s a hard thing to do.

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The joy that comes from seeing a big crowd gather for Press Club is immeasurable. Outside the boundaries of Upcote Farm, they’ve been cruelly shafted in popularity; inside, however, they might as well be on home soil. Prickling punk energy with a sunsetting indie-rock sensibility is a standard tipple of choice for the ‘trees faithful, but there’s something about Natalie Foster’s convulsing and eagerness to get off the stage that makes it feel sharper. It also helps that the all-natural roil and rumble of the bass and guitars are perfectly executed on the likes of To All The Ones That I Love, tapping into a vigour that, all throughout, leaves you utterly, hopelessly enamoured. For punk of this stripe and calibre, you couldn’t ask for more.

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Shot from the side of the stage, Terminal Sleep give us a look at their Aussie beatdown-core in full effect.

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Julia Wolf finds herself on the Forest Stage wearing a piece of 2000trees merch, presumably to try and win over a crowd who mightn’t be too tapped into which TikTok star is blowing up at this precise minute. They aren’t exactly projecting euphoria, but Wolf is always smiling and enthusiastic to be here. Good thing, too, because she really struggles elsewhere. Her alt-pop set-up of thicker guitars, heavy drums and a warbling voice lays its limitations out bare, where if the lack of flexibility doesn’t do it in, the airlessness does. It’s hard to feel so devoid of atmosphere in an environment this picturesque, but among the trees and rustic, wooden stage, Wolf’s music sits like a conspicuously out-of-place rock. Sunshine State at least stands out for being acoustic. Look past that fact, though, and it’s as uneventful as everything else.

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As longstanding paragons of reliability in emo, The Dangerous Summer bring that talent to the main stage.

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Frank Turner’s set is a throwback to a past 2000trees life in a couple of ways—a) it has a way bigger artist coming down to the Forest Stage for something stripped-down and special, and b) it involves Frank Turner. For show 3,054, Turner takes to the place he evidently loves more than life itself to play Love, Ire & Song in full, albeit differently sequenced to, as per his own explanation, make for a better show. And, look—you have to know what to expect from this. It’s a Frank Turner solo set, played entirely acoustically, and constructed from his most beloved album whose target audience could be boiled down to exactly ‘the people in this glade and up the hill leading to it’. At least by those standards, there’s a little more riding on it than your average solo journeyman’s set, in how significant the deep cuts that are dredged up are. Otherwise, with 3,000-plus shows under Turner’s belt, another all-timer is hard to add on, but ask anyone here and you’re unlikely to get different than it being a roaring success.

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Trash Boat’s continual morphing into a punk colossus takes them to the main stage in fine, ferocious form.

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Graphic Nature may be one of the most consistent metal forces that we’ve got in the UK. They seldom alter (if ever), but they’re so adrenalised in their slaughterfests that you’re too busy wanting to cave your fellow man’s face in notice. So here’s another hefty slab of that, where ridiculously heavy, deep and low-slung nu-metal reigns with a fittingly iron fist. As daunting as its unrelenting nature can be, it’s not without reward, thanks to Harvey Freeman as one of the most slept-on frontmen in current metal, thanks to some absurd screaming proficiency and breath control. The bleakness of it all similarly rings loud—Freeman dedicates a song to a school friend of died of suicide just two weeks ago, spoken with the nonchalance of knowing how common it is—but it only adds to the bludgeoning that Graphic Nature dole out. A special kind of band.

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There’s a guy going around the Axiom before Mclusky’s set asking something to the effect of “Ready for the best band on the lineup?” Andy Falkous’ self-deprecative tendencies might beg to differ (“You’re enjoying life so much, you’re willing to indulge us in our new songs—how very fucking polite of you”), but nevertheless, a scattered yet dedicated crowd seem far deeper in the former mindset. It’s not hard to see why, either, when Mclusky’s return has found them so locked-in. Their signature sneer is plastered all over this post-hardcore / noise-rock tussle, driven with tension that Falkous and Damien Sayell’s immense shrieks finally undo. It’s one of those no-fireworks comeback sets that ‘trees excels in facilitating, especially for bands like this for whom the music itself is the be-all and end-all. Yes, Sayell and his firmly-gripped bass take half the stage for themselves, but Falkous standing rigid in place is not the complaint it’d be for a band with less going on musically. It’s the sheer, white-knuckle, grassroots tenacity of Mclusky that sees them win, at the end of the day. Hope that guy enjoyed it, too.

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The beauty with Coheed And Cambria is that, even if you know nothing about them, there’s still the dazzle factor to get ya. They’re the first of today’s two headliners, and arguably the one with the least runway outside of their own fanbase. For many in attendance, that’s not a problem; they’re clearly already neck-deep in Claudio Sanchez’s prog-pop space-opera. And yet, when Goodbye Sunshine kicks off and soars above the sunset to the poppiest apex of progressive rock, even the most uninitiated have to feel something. Where some of these ‘for the fans’ headliners in the past have struggled to get past their lack of a cache of hits, the drama inherent within Coheed is enough for them to take flight. It’s huge and epic and bombastic, where every solo and tart vocal rip from Sanchez vamps its way to glory.

Plus, Coheed might just be some of the most technically proficient musicians on the premises this weekend, which in itself is a huge bonus. Others will have solos, sure, but this is the next level up. It never gets old to see a particularly detailed hit get ripped out, or the flagrance that it takes to bust out a double-necked guitar for a triumphant closing Welcome Home. Even Shoulders, invariably indebted to classic rock formulae, feels brazen from a band whose entire M.O. is flexing in that context. Coheed are clearly having a blast themselves, evidenced by a cover of Danzig’s Mother that comes out of thin air. They’re not a serious band at the best of times, but seeing them properly let their hair down (and in Sanchez’s case, there’s a lot of hair to let down) is wonderful. It’s huge, exultant stuff, exactly as it should be.

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Wow, that Million Dead frontman looks familiar, doesn’t he? It almost would’ve been a betrayal to the fortitude of the bit had Million Dead returned without Frank Turner at the helm, such was his adamance for years that the beloved but short-lived post-hardcore project was permanently dead. Well, here they are, back after 20 years, and the fact there’s some genuine firepower behind this would insinuate it’s not just some passing fling. Between Turner’s rock-on-rock screams, the brick of a bass tone and a guitar that’s not far behind, there’s considerable muscle behind what’s going on here. It’s also pretty thrilling to see Turner back to casting his tenser, more volatile hardcore silhouette, something that a packed-out Axiom wholeheartedly agrees with. “We are Million Dead,” announces Turner to rapturous cheers, never seeming to die down during this hour reintroduction of one of Britcore’s more elusive spectres. A return like this feels like the pinnacle of Turner’s kinship with 2000trees, and while it’s too early to say if it’s just a curio or a full-on comeback (even with more dates for later this year), the storm it whips up is far from insignificant.

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There’s a common observation / half-joke that a Taking Back Sunday show is only as good as Adam Lazzara feels like making it. Tonight, he appears to be in two minds of how to go about that. On one hand, he’s the lithe, agile, mic-swinging entertainer that the best light paints him in, even wheeling out statements like “I’m thoroughly enjoying myself!” when he can. On the other, there’s not a hint of sincerity in that statement, and he’s often slinking to the back of the stage to perform. And there are multiple long pauses without any crowdwork. And he barely appears to be singing on the opener A Decade Under The Influence. Pair all of that up with Lazzara declaring how the band are specifically in the UK for 2000trees, and it’s hard to pin down whether he’s proud of that fact or inconvenienced by it.

It’s the enigma of Lazzara that makes it difficult to get into any sort of pocket with Taking Back Sunday here. In a set that comprehensively spans almost every era of one of emo’s most celebrated bands, there’s an off feeling that shouldn’t be there. At least it’s played well, and the live mix is extremely generous, regardless of which historical swerve its faced with. Even Lazzara himself can’t help but get swept up in some of that; he serves up some decent screams on El Paso, and put behind an acoustic guitar on Amphetamine Smiles, he looks to be having a legitimately good time. As for the rest of the band, they’re all putting in some fine work with few complaints to be had. Lazzara calls bassist John Cooper “the most reliable member of Taking Back Sunday” and it’s hard to argue here, but the instrumental contingent in general is doing fine.

Therefore, when you average it all out…it’s not bad, but the feeling of an impending tip into that can distract from much better. At least when they get to the end for Cute Without The ‘E’ (Cut From The Team) and MakeDamnSure, that’s a version of Taking Back Sunday with its act together, all the way down. They sound vibrant and focused here, with all of their energies in sync for the final, staple numbers. Would’ve been nice to have that all the way through and prevent some real (and weird) unevenness, but hey, what can you do?

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Words by Luke Nuttall

Photos by Will Robinson (Instagram)