FESTIVAL REVIEW: 2000trees Festival 2026 – Friday

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

The dedication of the 2000trees faithful really can’t be overstated. It’s 11:30am, practically the crack of dawn in festival hours, and already, a modest crowd has assembled in the Axiom solely to support some new music. It makes even more sense when that band is Guillotine, fronted by ex-Holding Absencer Ash Green and possessing a similar elegiac feel. Even in a more emo context this time, the command of dynamics and the slow burn of it all is unmistakable, and Guillotine absolutely make it work. It’s unrushed but purposeful, raw yet gentle, and can cycle through all of that with ease. Right now, there are very few complaints; for a brand new band, their early instincts are off the charts.

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‘trees loves a set like Twat Union’s—a mid-afternoon main stage romp from an indie-punk collective that’s all-around funny, provocative and relevant. It might be just the newest incarnation of a Loose Articles or a Gen And The Degenerates, but it always makes for a good time. Even so, maybe there is a bit more going on with Twat Union. For one, prerequisite personality can tilt into borderline prop-comedy at times, particularly in Kate MacDonald wrapping herself in a towel on Period Sex, and opening it to reveal red foil bloodstains like a ‘trees-brand Sabrina Carpenter. Factor in keyboardist Alice Rivers leading a bout of “punk-country line-dancing”, and the occasional bit of sax sizzle for added mood, and there’s a fresh unpredictability to Twat Union that their sort seldom offer. More like this, please.

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It feels like forever since Nervus have been around. Luckily, it doesn’t take forever to reassert why they’re still fully worth it. Em Foster knows the score—all their songs have “singalong bits” (“it’s why we still get invited to play even though we haven’t written any new material in four years.”) It truly is as simple as that; Nervus have always rocketed past their indie-punk and emo peers in undeniable hook-work, and years after the fact, it’s still true. None of the sparkle has been lost from Get Equal, Get Even or Sick Sad World. Even keyboardist Paul Etienne’s infectious shape-throwing adds to the joy-pile of one of the UK’s unsung greats, as it always did. And with the sardonic, critical edge of a song like They Don’t remaining pertinent (perhaps more than ever), Nervus wind up being as great as ever.

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It doesn’t take long for House Of Protection’s Stephen Harrison to leave the main stage and find himself at the eye of a nascent pit. That in itself is nothing new, in what might as well be the daily commute for the frontman of post-hardcore’s newest main hellraisers. What is a little different is their collaborator Jordan Fish joining him down there for Learn To Forget, almost like a congratulatory lap for getting so far. You wouldn’t doubt it; by the time Fuse rolls around, House Of Protection are almost entirely free of the usual malaise of Fish-core, morphing into something truly exciting. Even if the sonic font is largely the same, it’s galvanised to a borderline silly degree. The weight is what ultimately makes this, on top of a kineticism and booming, shuddering power from Aric Improta’s drums. It never seems to stop ratcheting up, either, until It’s Supposed To Hurt closes up with the most feral gnash yet. At that point, House Of Protection have their win well and truly locked in.

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In the Marshall tent, it’s apparently an inhumane 57°C. You’d expect Harry Radford to be a bit worse for wear, then, not dashing through the crowd to climb on the accessible viewing platform, as he’s wont to do. If nothing else, it gives Call Me Amour an edge where others would inevitably begin to flag hard. That’s definitely a good thing, particularly for a band who’s always come into their own live. Sure, some louder bass would sate this shallower mix, but for a sound rooted in Britrock of the 2010s, this doesn’t sound too drab or dated. In fact, other than the sluggish Bloom, Call Me Amour can be impressively sharp today. As far from cutting-edge as it might be, they do enough well (including, y’know, surviving) to warrant the praise.

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The Scratch’s achievements today go far beyond just having the cajón on the main stage this weekend. They’re one of those unclassifiable oddities that the ‘trees ecosystem treats better than anyone else, and thus, are allowed to thrive as they see fit. It’s almost comically obvious to say they have one of most unique sound palettes on the entire bill, and they embrace it to phenomenal effect. The harmonies that travel for miles are emblematic of Celtic folk’s warm communality; meanwhile, there’s a brusque, blocky metal edge to Pull Like A Dog and Gladrags, fully distinct but working in unity. Thrown together, The Scratch’s brew is loose and jammy, with an addictive rowdiness all the way through. The prevailing heat is noted (individuals with water guns in the crowd are dubbed “angels upon this earth”), but it’s never stymying to where other bands might limit themselves because of it. The Scratch are fully committed to what they’re doing, from front to back, and it produces one of the most fun sets of the entire weekend.

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The unfortunate dropping-out of Lambrini Girls has seen the need for some lineup reshuffling, but Militarie Gun up on the main stage might just be the most silvery silver lining imaginable. They belong up here, not cooped up in The Cave where their not-a-hardcore band status is all the more pronounced. Now, as the day finally starts to cool down, God Owes Me Money moves forward with its fuzzy, keening guitars, and Militarie Gun feel at home. Perhaps the uptick in scale means they aren’t quite there yet (they’re hardly a mobile bunch), but their happiness to be here is painted on. There’s a warmth to Ian Shelton as a frontman, mirrored in the big, Britpop-esque swirls of his band’s work and persisting all the way through. There’s no flux in how consistently high Militarie Gun’s efforts are; even an appearance from Anthony Green on Thought You Were Waving doesn’t disrupt their flow, one way or the other. If that’s not a sign of a band who should’ve been up here from the beginning, what is?

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“This is a celebration of life!” cries Ginger, in what will effectively be the mantra of his remaining years since being diagnosed with Mantle Cell Lymphoma and choosing not to undergo treatment. The ‘rock-or-die’ attitude of The Wildhearts is now very literal, yet spirits couldn’t be higher. That’s on both sides of the stage; the band arrive to a hero’s welcome, before Failure Is The Mother Of Success roars into life, hungrier than it’s sounded in years. From there, The Wildhearts keep it up. In The Cave, their barrel-chested rock music feels more raucous, allowed to bounce and rip in this enclosed area. It’s a delight to watch, and puts into clear perspective how evergreen The Wildhearts’ catalogue is. They can flip from thundering metal to the tightest power-pop around, and here, it all sounds great.

Naturally, though, the focus will all be placed on Ginger himself and how vivacious a character he is. As a frontman, he’s an obvious rockstar—the hoary vocals; the storming riff-work; the little duel with bassist Jon Poole on I Wanna Go Where The People Go. But it’s outside the music where the aforementioned celebration of life is worn most proudly. It’s unmissable in his demeanour, even more so when his dog Maggie runs onstage. Overall, there’s enthusiasm for all this down to the bones, a world away from mortal dread or solemnity. (Mazel Tov Cocktail is introduced with “If you don’t know the song, listen to the person next to you; if they don’t know it, sing…a fucking Don Broco song.”) That’s ultimately what makes The Wildhearts so special right now, and turns a set like this into near-perfection.

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The last time that Arcane Roots were around in consistently capacity was 2018, and judging by the packed-out Axiom, absence has made a lot of hearts grow really fond indeed. It’s tough to say whether this is indicative of a long-term return, but as the heavy synth stabs soundtracking their arrival suggest, they’re about to make the most of what they’ve got. Andrew Groves stands shrouded in reds against the gentle pianos of A Wave, Across The Sea. Really, that cinematic drama is all over the place, often leaving the band silhouetted and elevated by their swooping sound. As far as prog goes, Arcane Roots know how to make their statement, visually and sonically, and for as far outside of a mainstream purview as their resurrection is, it’s being lapped up here to no end. The somersaulting vocals and dense melodies (On The Floor even gets a singalong going early on) mesh with the prog-rock rise-and-fall rather than clash. The fact that Arcane Roots come with two drummers today and still bear a vestige of accessibility is a wonder. And for the faithful here, who’d be enamoured no matter what, it’s all got the most magnitude of anything ever.

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When the Lucas Woodland-fronted Funeral For A Friend was announced a couple of Slam Dunks ago, you’d presume it was just a one-off fill-in. Not so, though, seeing as it evidently still has legs, enough to propel itself to the very top of the 2000trees bill. It doesn’t hurt that Funeral For A Friend have the exact right aura, even today—a 2000s post-hardcore that never quite broke the ceiling into bigger headlining status, but that’s more than welcome here. Even without the infusion of fresh blood, the band are on a particularly mean streak this evening, where Rookie Of The Year and This Year’s Most Open Heartbreak pack that guitar tone that’s become tacitly iconic among the Britrock crowd. It’s actually the 25th anniversary of Funeral For A Friend this year, and that never equates to them running low or getting tired out.

Of course, Woodland himself is not a non-factor. The glee that rings in his introduction of “We’re Funeral For A Friend and we’re all the rage” is palpable, as is the desire to impress that gels so cleanly with his natural effortlessness. It’s no secret that his work in Holding Absence as been informed by this band, but it’s plain to see in the ease with which he slides into Streetcar or Monsters. (He’s never sounded more Welsh, either, for the record.) The grit and gruffness of Front Row Seats To The End Of The World is also executed greatly, though ballads and big moments are the more natural fit. They’re also Funeral For A Friend’s best as a whole, for how festival-ready Drive and History are, and how Neck Deep’s Ben Barlow assists in cranking Juneau up to an even higher highlight status. It’s pretty great stuff, with all the punch and packed-in momentum to fully deserve a headline slot like this. A hearty rejuvenation helps, but unquestionably, Funeral For A Friend have still got it in spades.

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Words by Luke Nuttall

Photos by Joe Singh, Carla Mundy, Gareth Bull and Jez Pennington