FESTIVAL REVIEW + PHOTOS: Download Festival 2026 – Saturday

Want more Download Festival? Check out our full review and galleries of Friday and Sunday.

Thornhill up on the Apex Stage makes all the sense in the world. They’re at that level now, among the crowd of nu- and alt-metallers whose output can justify their immense popularity (“horny for Thorny”, as the merch says). And while they’re evidently still getting their feet wet at this scale, they bring a lot to the table all the same. In his fur-necked parka and sunglasses, Jacob Charlton has the protagonist silhouette down pat, and the vocal range to impress alongside it. Thornhill have a lot of power at their disposal, and loading that into sawing nu-metal grooves proves workable in making this jump up to the big time. There’s a lot more to come from them up here, that’s for sure.

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Ah, South Arcade—another band who would’ve been the blackest of black sheep at most pre-pandemic incarnations of Download. Not for no reason, either; even now, the Y2K pop-rock aesthetic and Harmony Cavelle speaking exclusively in TikTok captions can feel a wee bit out of step with the whole thing. But have South Arcade ever been ones to shy away from…literally anything? With the pyro they’re packing and CO2-spraying aerosol cans as their backdrop, ‘shy’ hardly seems in their vocabulary. It doesn’t go wasted, either, given a crowd that’s fully into the unbelievable confidence on display. There’s an absurd amount of crowd-surfers across SUPERMAN and Riptide, coinciding with the nu-metal bounce and swagger that never puts a foot wrong. (It’ll make for some killer Reels in the coming weeks.) The punch of excitability that South Arcade continue to dish out is only getting harder, swifter, and more difficult to escape. It’s yet another summer for them that’s anything but stone-cold.

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A nice bump up to the Opus Stage gives As Everything Unfolds’ punchy modern metalcore even more room to shine.

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LANDMVRKS continue to roar through metalcore with a big appearance on the Apex Stage.

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You get a feel for the timbre of the Avalanche Stage when Die Spitz’s bassist Kate Halter arrives onstage and does a handstand, just because. Opening for Olivia Rodrigo next year and blowing up becoming a tangible prospect would make anyone excited. In the here and now, though, there’s still plenty of warmth for Die Spitz. Sure, the vocals could use a bit more definition in this live mix, but lush, propulsive, grunge-influenced punk handily makes up for it. There’s a lot of oomph to this, smeared over in recognisably ‘90s dress and allowed to thrive entirely on its own merits. It’s absolutely solid, the sort of undercard performance that puts in every bit of effort to prove itself and its place here. To that end, there are few complaints to be had about Die Spitz.

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From here on, today’s Apex Stage lineup hosts arena-rock legends and modern metal superstars, and the concerted effort by Black Veil Brides to fit among them is palpable. For the best part of an hour, they arrive at their mightiest and most succinct. Knives And Pens opens, in which Andy Biersack’s screams might sound better than ever before. Rebel Love Song and Fallen Angels resemble tried-and-true hard rock classics at this point (the former even eliciting unironic horn-raising in the year of our lord 2026). Even the newer cuts that comprise a hefty portion of the set are consistently impactful additions; there’s no dip when it’s their turn out. Tied together with plenty of fire and decadent visuals, it’s about as consummate as a mid-afternoon festival set gets. Even slick-to-the-point-of-frictionless presentation is no barrier to In The End’s utterly limitless reach as a closer, a notion that Black Veil Brides rightfully revel in. Pretty brilliant stuff.

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Apparently, it’s now etched into Babymetal’s lore that, whenever they set foot on Donington’s ground, a downpour tends to follow. It seems like the Fox God is feeling benevolent today, though; it’s a glorious day, second only in brightness to Su-Metal’s beamed-out “We’re so happy to be back at Download with sunshine!” Ideally, they’re the conditions you want for a Babymetal show, where the zipping melodeath is intensified and the overblown opening narrative that uses the word ‘metal’ about 50 times can be enjoyed for its ludicrousness. It’s nice to see that’s a common sentiment, too. No longer are Babymetal paraded around as an oddity or an early-doors gimmick. Ingratiated mid-lineup like a normal band, it’s a lot easier to appreciate as simply a great time.

At the same time, you can still appreciate that, on this grander stage, it is still its own thing. Idol choreography that has the trio dancing and zipping around the stage is by no means commonplace, and the rush of seeing it play out remains. The difference, though, is after all these years of building and refinement (which is why Gimme Chocolate!! feels is a bit rudimentary in this set), the overload of colour and exuberance makes it all the grander. Maximalist eruptions like PA PA YA!! and RATATATA scorch everything in their wake, especially when the Kami Band are this impossibly tight and well-honed. Where it once seemed as though the pillorying of Babymetal was common practice among ‘true’ metalheads, they’ve made themselves so undeniable now that it almost feels impossible to complain. If you’re not swept up into believing that Road Of Resistance is an all-timer of a closer based on today, you’re either an immovable contrarian or dead. Such is the power of Babymetal in 2026; long may it continue.

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Over on the Opus Stage, Bush deliver a strong showcase of their grunge classics.

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Everyone knows how intrinsically linked to Trivium Download is—first appearance, 40,000-strong crowd at 11am, so on and so forth. It’s a story etched into the annals of modern metal history, wheeled out at any opportunity because who wouldn’t want a tale like that to their name? And while it might seem wrong to speak of it so flippantly, it’s not like Trivium themselves have given any reason not to. Crushing it live with unwavering regularity is just kinda their thing now, such is the case today. On a giant sub-headline slot, they bust out a devastating Pull Harder On The Strings Of Your Martyr first, and it all goes from there.

The wind puts paid to some of the flashier elements of onstage production, including the inflatable Monte the Monster, but if anything, it speaks to Trivium’s steadfastness that they still impress as they do. Guitar pyrotechnics prove enough from Corey Beaulieu, though especially Matt Heafy. He’s always a joy to watch, enthusiasm seeping through even his most serious of put-on metal gurns. It’s an expressiveness that, even on top of an impeccably thick mix and giant sound, shoots this to another level of brilliance. When there’s such enjoyment glee from the shred-fest of A Gunshot To The Head Of Trepidation, or the Kaiju-choruses of Down From The Sky, Until The World Goes Cold and (what else?) In Waves, it taps into something deeper. Trivium at a base level are excellent; Trivium firing on all cylinders at an adopted home that’s still utterly besotted with them is a dream.

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Seeing Behemoth in broad daylight is almost like something that shouldn’t be. Like, the sun is glowing a beautiful, warm hue as the Opus Stage is adorned with sigils and metal, strung-up Jesuses. At least there’s a reconciliation that, if ‘festival black-metal’ were a thing (meant as non-pejoratively as possible), Behemoth would probably be it. Amid their icy viciousness and mottled body-painted visages, there’s a real attraction here. Hell, a song like The Shit Ov God might even come close to *gasp* a singalong, all without straying from its left-hand path. And for as much as this is just Big Metal Band with added blastbeats and violence to its pyro, there’s a brand of allure to Behemoth that few else at this year’s Download have. For anyone going in blind with an open mind, this could well be a highlight of the weekend.

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Three hours, eh? Long old time, isn’t it? Surely a band with as long and storied a history as Guns N’ Roses can make good on that for a headline set, right? …right?

Well, one thing to note straight away is that this by the far the most sparse crowd that anyone topping the bill this weekend pulls. It’s indicative of a demographic shift, more than anything, where the crowds coming to Download are much more likely to resonate with Limp Bizkit or Linkin Park, bands that constitute the new breed of ‘classic rock’. Yes, Guns N’ Roses are undoubtedly legends, responsible for some of the greatest hard rock music of all time, but perception is not indefinite, even for them. So even after bucking all preconceptions and kicking off early, there’s still an uphill struggle to contend with.

Let’s address the main issue first—Axl Rose is a horrendous singer now. His voice is totally gone now, to the point where halfway through opener Welcome To The Jungle, he already sounds out of breath. Perhaps that has to do with this 64-year-old man bounding up and down the stages, trying to cling onto the vestiges of youthful danger that characterised his golden years. To his credit, he does genuinely look like he’s enjoying himself throughout; this isn’t some classic-rocker’s phoned-in payday. But there’s only so much that can forgive. When he’s clearly unable to handle his biggest songs, it makes this three-hour gauntlet trudge all the more. Even when you think you’ve settled into a groove with it (not that it’s improved; it just becomes part of the interior), a butchered Sweet Child O’ Mine kills that notion stone-dead.

Thus, it’s left to the band to pick it up, and they fortunately sound fantastic. Truly, the instrumental unit of Guns N’ Roses has not a speck of rust of it, and that can elevate things on its own, at least to a point. Slash is the guitar hero he’s always been, ripping out a multi-part solo two hours in like it’s nothing, but also just making these songs feel as important as they always were. Credit to Duff McKagan, too, not just for being a deeply underrated bassist, but for taking over on vocals for Black Leather while Axl takes a Soother or something. Along with the typically impeccable mix of the Apex Stage, it’s a minor miracle that Guns N’ Roses’ instrumental component have the stamina for the entire three hours, without any major wobbles.

That said, it’s a lot to expect a set that long to connect all the way through. Maybe on their current stadium run that’s catered to the diehards, but this isn’t that. Thus, at point where crowd motion seems restricted to limply batting a couple of small balloons about, it’s almost a perfect metaphor for the mid-section sag to come. The less-than-sterling reception to new song Nothin’ speaks volumes; older deep cuts at least have the benefit of being good, but they’re far from slam dunks, either. The cover of Jimmy Webb’s Wichita Lineman is a particularly baffling one, a song that no one seems to know, that the band have no real idea for (outside of Slash on pedal steel), and that feels like the greatest casualty of such an exorbitant set length. At least covers like Live And Let Die or Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door have a place in the Gn’R canon, and do rather well from being expanded on and beefed-out.

There’s a lot of loose, unkempt chaff to deal with, in other words, and when the real hype moments show themselves, you see how night-and-day the impact is. Yes, Axl’s Mickey Mouse squeak on Sweet Child O’ Mine sounds terrible, but the thousands in attendance seem more than happy to pick up the slack. Don’t Cry and November Rain (the latter with Axl at the piano, changed into his Elton John sparklies) actually sound great, in a manageable vocal range with the power-ballad size to craft a couple of Donington-filling moments. Paradise City is soon to follow, the final pinnacle in a set that could use some more, but has them nonetheless.

And that’s basically how Guns N’ Roses’ set can be summarised overall—it has its moments; it has just as many that don’t pay off whatsoever; and it remains memorable, despite all of that. Perhaps that’s the epitome of grace given to legacy acts who probably don’t deserve it, but it is what it is. Guns N’ Roses headlining Download—it’s three hours long.

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Words by Luke Nuttall

Photos by Maryleen (Instagram / Website)