FESTIVAL REVIEW: 2000trees Festival 2026 – Thursday

As another scorching 2000trees Festival dawns, it’s worth looking upon what the future holds for Upcote Farm’s premier rock soirée. Next year will be its 20th anniversary, no doubt sparing no expense in crafting a lineup that, more often than not, is overloaded with great stuff, both new and old. 2026, however, seems to place more emphasis on the new, as if the heaviest hitters are waiting in the wings for something truly special next time.

That said, a bill predominately giving newer acts their flowers will still inevitably spit out some real gems. Silo, for instance, continue to defy any and all parameters of a band of their size. Frontman Kriss Maguire estimates this to be only their seventh show, and yet, with a fully fleshed-out grungegaze sound already to hand, there’s not a teething problem in sight. The respectable crowd they pull are far more attentive than merely escaping the sun, too. With guitars that hit like bricks and a cratering determination driving it all, Silo continue to prove that being strikingly good strikingly early wasn’t just a fluke of their debut Haze. A little more definition wouldn’t go amiss (“Let’s pick it back up,” says Maguire, before another cut that…isn’t too different from any that preceded), but that’s hardly ruining what’s here right now.

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With the NEU Stage rechristened into the Marshall Stage for this year, it’s also been snazzed up a bit. String lights hang along the ceiling, and there’s an overall cosier atmosphere which goo are among the first to make use of. They do so suitably with Payday, the sprightly indie-rock number that it is, and carry it forward rather valiantly. There’s an undeniable energy among them all, a special mention going to drummer Kurt Wood and his unstoppable rattling along. Across the board, though, goo simply nail what they set out to do. Stacking hooks upon hooks with the vim to spark a rare “York-shire! York-shire!” chant this far down south leaves goo looking like a band deep in their element.

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The spin-kickers are out in earnest for Long Goodbye, before their first song has even begun. That alone is a good indication of the crowd they cultivate; their old-school metalcore is an even better one. This is the sort of thing that wears its style proudly on its sleeve, never giving reinvention a second thought, but treating their 2000s-leaning brutality as a sacred text. It’s Patrick Morton’s sandpaper scream that does the most, amplified by his jerky onstage movements while his bandmates indulge in a bit of classically-style breakdown pageantry. There’s almost a bombast tucked inside something more vicious and underground, and Long Goodbye do a great job at putting it all together.

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Just Saint Agnes’ luck that they find themselves with another ‘trees main stage slot in the blistering sun. This happened a few years back, too, though arguably more inappropriate now with Your God Fearing Days Are About To Begin being so ill-fitting to concepts like light and levity. Nevertheless, the wall of death (…ish) that a besuited Kitty A Austen commandeers suggests they’re in it to win it. And win it, they certainly do. For a style as dark and hard as theirs, at odds with literally any visual stimulus around them, the slam of Bloodsuckers and the sweating dance-rock rumble of The Ghost prove big and bold enough to strike hard. The nervy discord from the rest of the band is what ties everything together, and leaves Saint Agnes feeling so monolithic, even in the baking heat. If, as Austen claims, we really are “here to have a bad time”…well, sorry; that couldn’t be less true.

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It’s a big ol’ weekend for Curtis Ward. Lately, he and the Still In Love boys will be reconvening with his old band Bring Me The Horizon for their feverishly-anticipated, barrier-free Count Your Blessings anniversary show. Today…they’re playing a mid-afternoon slot in The Cave. But while one might hold significantly more scene relevance than the other, you’d never tell. What is apparent is how their combined experiences in 2010s hardcore shapes Still In Love into a locomotive, lived-in unit. Bassist Adrian Cecil kicks and prowls his way across the stage; meanwhile, Nick Worthington spearheads this throwback where any negative connotation of the word is thoroughly excised. The shouts, the tone and the approach to melody are of the time, but the bone-deep gumption couldn’t be more contemporary. Timepeace’s Robyn Challand appears for There Will Be Enough, manifesting one of many dedications to real, inveterate musicians that Still In Love hold so near and dear. They’re among perfect company.

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Stress Positions are introduced by Stephanie Brooks, leg cocked on the stage riser, tearing out totally intelligible shrieks with the powerviolence of her bandmates rages away. A little while later, she delivers “What’s up, 2000trees? We’re Stress Positions!” in the most good-natured, genial tone possible. It’s the kind of giddy delight that tends to mark up bands this extreme on its own, though that’s not to say there isn’t more here. Far from it. Even on a hardcore stage, Stress Positions might be one of the most niche bands that ‘trees has this year, which spurs them further, if anything. There might be actual fire emerging from guitarist Benyamin Rudolph and drummer Jonathan Giralt, such is the utter devastation with which they play. As for Brooks, she’s often bundled on the floor to scream, as if to physically wrench it out of herself, while pro-Palestine and anti-police statements see any prior cheeriness melt away. It’s unceasing from front to back, rattling underfoot even in the nearby portaloos, as if to visualise how inescapable Stress Positions’ grip is. Once you’re exposed, this isn’t something you’re getting out of in a hurry.

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Bleech 9:3’s crusade to pop up at literally every festival this summer appears to be going swimmingly. They’re already one of the most hotly-tipped acts around, bolstered by legends of an insane live show to have you chomping at the bit even more. That doesn’t materialise today, though the musical display more than makes up for it. Amid an already-robust swathe of grunge anthems, there’s the extra spice that feels indicative of where such fervour comes from. Frontman Baz Quinlan mirrors the twitching, tensing start of Jacky, before the solemn energy takes over and sees Bleech 9:3 on even stronger form. Here, you get Cannonball’s muscle and sinew on full display, and the brick-sawing riff of Underrated. All the while, Quinlan’s punishment of his guitar with each strum compounds the bleakness of Bleech 9:3 so effectively. If putting them on the ‘heavy’ stage seems like an odd choice, they can justify it and stand as a true bastion of riff-rock’s current heights. The half-dozen more opportunities to catch them before the summer is up shouldn’t be ignored.

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As common as it is for bands to bust out how they’ve been wanting to play 2000trees for [x amount of time] for an easy pop, Pool Kids make it believable. Christine Goodwyne is clearly in joyous spirits with her skips and high kicks, fitting for a band that’s the sonic equivalent of those exact things. In terms of likability, Pool Kids are clearing the competition, hands down. Theirs is a brand of pop-rock that prioritises its clarity and verve, while an emo edge leaves it a little more nonstandard and interesting. Some lighter layers may get sheared off by the Axiom’s sound, though that’s of little consequence to a band built on sounding this irresistible. ‘Simple-but-effective’ incarnate, this one.

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Mariachi El Bronx might be a good afternoon space-filler, but you can’t beat the real deal, can you? Of course not, not when The Bronx have been going for 24 years now and have slowed down by a step. If anything, they’re leaning into it and bringing the overspilling Axiom along with them. Curb Feelers sees Matt Caughthran call for crowd-surfers of 40 and up, as a testament to “staying true to the punk rock spirit”. And that’s really The Bronx in a nutshell. It’s rough-and-tumble punk, with no airs and graces but one hell of a fat guitar tone. Heart Attack American in particular revs and rips, aided by low lighting and red spotlights for that sweatbox feel. Of course, such extolling of the “punk rock spirit” can butt heads with festival rubric, and False Alarm gets its sound cut off when someone begins to climb up the stage scaffolding. Credit to the band, though—they aren’t fazed by the expression, instead finding one of Caughthran’s many notable quotes, “If you climb the pole, you gotta jump off the pole!” It’s another of his that properly sums up todays proceedings: “I think it’s evident after all these years that The Bronx still kicks ass.”

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Last night, PUP headlined the Forest Stage for a full playthrough of The Dream Is Dead. It was a really fun set, in no small part due to that album remaining such a seminal part of indie- and alt-punk in the 21st Century. And yet, having them on the main stage, bathed in golden hour sunshine, just hits different. For one, it’s a better representation of how deep their bench is, with the scratchy guitar and throaty harmonies of Morbid Stuff kicking off an airtight tour through their catalogue. There’s no extensive visual pizzazz to speak of; it’s all contained in these power-pop riffs and scream-along hooks that go on forever.

Pretty much every box is ticked for this style of punk, from the scale, to the populism, to even the environmental benefit. And at the centre, PUP themselves are a rocketing presence; the walk-on to Firestarter is no exaggeration. Stefan Babcock’s yelp remains pretty inimitable, as is his willingness to use it to extol the core tenets of punk. “We don’t want everyone to feel comfortable at our shows” is such a heavy statement to make, and using it to decry predatory men, transphobes and deniers of the Palestinian genocide makes use of every bit of that weight. (It also helps that it precedes Hunger For Death, a song with the opening line “Fuck everyone on this planet”.) Past that, though, with the raging Reservoir and the final one-two of If This Tour Doesn’t Kill You, I Will and DVP, PUP are able to rip like nobody’s business. Can’t fault it, honestly.

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By the umpteenth time that Luke Bentham drops to his knees like he’s Pete Townshend, you’ve got a pretty solid idea of the kind of band The Dirty Nil want to be now. Punk still plays a part—nonchalantly arriving onstage with no fanfare or circumstance has a shade of that—but this is rock ‘n’ roll, baby! And, yeah—they really do nail it. The tone is perfect for what they’re after, with thick bass and wailing guitars smeared in grit. The demeanour, however, is what makes this so rock-solid, where Fail In Time’s knee-slide alone divvies out an extra scoop of rockstar rip across the board. A life-changing experience, it is not, but a riotous time from a band who’ve gone criminally undervalued since basically day dot? Absolutely, and with as thick and fast as it comes, it’s hard to picture this being much better.

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Over on the main stage, Don Broco are currently playing, drafted in not even a week ago as a last-minute headlining replacement for Alkaline Trio. In the Cave is the much more exciting option, though perhaps a little sparser in attendance than preferred. Ah well—Static Dress are still the objectively correct choice. They make sure you’re immediately aware of that, too, as questioning has Olli Appleyard dashing back and forth, ripping out razor screams with the best of ‘em. It’s exactly how post-hardcore laced with a throwback-screamo edge should be, revelling in its spontaneity without losing focus for even a beat. The tightness is something to behold here, especially with its astonishing heaviness. Live, that’s always been Static Dress’ bag, but it’s never not impressive. It’s true right the way down; George Holding’s bass hits like a truck, and it’d be a minor miracle if Sam Ogden leaves tonight with an intact drum kit.

Moreover, they just feel important here. The still night air outside the Cave is ripe for disturbance, something that even the aesthetic accomplishes. It’s borderline industrial with its harsh lights and regimented lines and angles; for once, the pillar bisecting the very front of the stage fits the decor. The music of Static Dress takes ultimate priority, though, and with new album Injury Episode being the triumph that it is, they’ve got more than ever to work with. Nostalgia Kills combusts every other second; Male-bomb is essentially what it says on the tin; even …hospice, the self-described “slow one”, hits its melodic zenith super early and super consistently. There’s never a dull moment, or even an errant one; this is heavy music loaded with purpose and driving it in time and time again. If you were still on the fence about Static Dress being one of the most vital heavy bands around, you’ve now got no excuse to think otherwise.

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Words by Luke Nuttall

Photos by Jez Pennington, Mac Praed, Joe Singh, Magda Campagne and Gareth Bull