Photo Credit: Kevin O’Sullivan
At the end of July, we headed to Pikehall in Derbyshire to enjoy four days of live music at Y Not Festival.
Getting there late in the Thursday meant we only had the time to catch Indie darlings The Wombats — though if you’re only going to watch one set on the Thursday, you couldn’t really ask for better than the Liverpudlians. Having played the O2 back in March, after releasing their sixth studio album Oh! The Ocean earlier this year, the group brought their citrusy goodness to the Peak District as they kicked off Y Not ‘25 in style.
When the crowd knew the songs, you’d be hard pressed to find a happier crowd; the last half an hour, particularly, was the most beautiful strain of crowd-screaming chaos, as Lemon To A Knife Fight and If You Ever Leave I’m Coming With You led into Turn, Greek Tragedy and, shortly after, the inimitable closer of Let’s Dance To Joy Division. However, a slight lack of crowd engagement, along with a surprisingly high propensity of slower, more obscure tracks that were left feeling almost like background music to the crowd’s drunken ramblings, let the band down a little. Still, what a way to kick off a weekend. 8/10
Honey Motel were as smooth as the name suggests, talent and charm oozing out of every silky word uttered by vocalist Matt Walker and saccharine note played by the band — a stark contrast to the rain already drizzling down over the Derbyshire festival grounds. The likes of If You Didn’t Exist, Milk, their soon-to-be-released upcoming single …Try Not To Worry Babe or closer Aphrodite, the unreleased closer of their forthcoming November EP Motel FM, the group were a phenomenal start to the weekend proper. 9/10
When you think of Y Not, and you think of bands becoming festival favourites that return year on year, your mind obviously goes to deathcore, extreme metal group Raised By Owls. Bucket hats and Oasis-esque sunglasses replace last year’s priest get-ups, although the dildo wielding Mr. Blobby was of course front and centre throughout. “We’re Raised By Owls, and we play awful music for awful people”, vocalist Sam Fowler simultaneously greeted and warned the crowd, before proceeding into his game host alter-ego to award ‘circumcision survivor’ t-shirts and trophies, the winner proudly donning the ‘distinctive’ designed shirt.
The music wasn’t any less surreal, the band boasting the likes of the (not really) ballad-like Ross Kemp On Gang Bangs and the iconic Ainsley Harriott Advises You to Give Your Meat a Good Ol’ Rub. Earplugs perhaps advised, but a hell of a lot of fun. 8/10
Equal parts gothic cabaret and post-apocalyptic fever dream, Harpy stalked onto the stage like a vampiric ringmaster — flanked by masked, gagged instrumentalists who looked more Mad Max militia than bandmates. From the opening line of Swallow, it was clear that Y Not were in for something that danced on the knife-edge between theatrical and terrifying. But beneath the menace was genuine musicianship — vocally leaping from whisper to soaring, emotive cries, and finally to banshee screams with predatory precision. By the time Not My God Anymore erupted into its final, throat-shredding crescendo, the tension was sky-high — though Slaughterhouse may have lost just a touch of its menace thanks to an unfortunately well-timed bubble gun assault from a grinning child at the barrier. Still, femme fatale’s never felt so fatal. 9/10
There’s always been something quietly revolutionary about Somebody’s Child. Even before the band broke into songs, there appeared a Palestinian flag, hanging half-hidden off a speaker, understated but impossible to ignore — a subtle, unwavering act of solidarity in a climate where such gestures have drawn controversy. But, even while the band delivered their now-familiar cocktail of emotional rock and expansive indie soundscapes, it was Cian Godfrey’s voice — all rasped vulnerability and rawness — that once again stole the show, lending each track a bruised intensity that made even the softer moments feel like a confession. Songs like Irish Goodbye hit as hard as ever, while Jungle throbbed with its signature budding undercurrent of explosive energy. But it was We Could Start A War that truly lit the fuse; introduced with a simple, firm declaration — “this song’s about peace. Free Palestine” — its quiet fury soon erupted into a thunderous climax, the crowd roaring their approval back at the band like a wave smashing against the rocks. By the time Time Of My Life closed the set, there was nothing else that needed to be said. 8.5/10
Kicking off with the shoegaze-coded Take a Ride (Lights, Camera, Action), festival favourites The Hunna wasted no time as they launched into their brand of stadium-sized, almost painfully anthemic hooks. Frontman Ryan Potter was at his unhinged best — at one point teetering on the edge of the drum kit, screaming I Wanna Know with everything he had, before launching himself back to earth in dramatic fashion — and the crowd weren’t much better, practically vibrating with excitement.
The anxiety-soaked drone of Fugazi, along with Hide and Seek from the group’s upcoming debut EP blue transitions, understandably tore through the air, but unsurprisingly it was the old school mainstays — Bonfire and She’s Casual — that fully sent the crowd into a frenzy, bodies moving as one in a haze of nostalgia and adrenaline. Always a delight. 8.5/10
“If Alex Turner fronted Muse, you’d get Himalayas.” Granted, can’t remember where we first heard that, but whoever said it wasn’t wrong. Their electric guitars screamed like air raid sirens, the same creeping, paranoia and fear-conjured unease flooding the tent from the first second of cinematic opener I Surrender — only barely calmed by Joe Williams’ gravelled vocals cutting through the chaos — but oh was it entrancing.
Between co-writing V.O.V with AC/DC’s Brian Johnson and opening for Foo Fighters in Cardiff last year, Himalayas have clearly studied the greats, and it showed — not in imitation, but in the self-assured command they brought to the stage. While much of the set leaned on newer material from April’s BAD STAR, the ravenous crowd didn’t seem to mind one bit, swallowing the band’s brand of brooding alt-rock whole. Still, it was the closer From Hell to Here that stole it — a blistering, familiar finale that reminded everyone just how far they’ve come. 8.5/10
With a name like Primal Scream, you’d be forgiven for expecting something more feral — but what you actually get is part psychedelic sermon, part raucous house party, part rock ‘n’ roll history lesson. Dressed in a crisp white suit over a harlequin-patterned black shirt, frontman Bobby Gillespie looked every bit the louche, suave ringmaster, strutting and swaying through a set that leaned more toward groove than grit. Eight strong on stage, the band’s line-up included gospel singers, saxophone, tambourine, and even a flute — a full-spectrum sound that turned the main stage into a fever dream of funk, soul, and swagger. Whether or not you knew the songs, it was impossible not to get swept up in the euphoria, especially when Bobby descended into the photo pit, maracas in hand, to lead a chorus of loaded. By the time Country Girl and Rocks closed the set in a sax-blasted, drum-led instrumental crescendo, it was clear: Primal Scream might not scream, but they sure as hell deliver. 9/10
The Prodigy delivered what might be the most intense live setup the Peak District has ever seen — less a performance, more a full-blown sensory assault. Shrouded in smoke so thick the stage looked like a mirage, the quartet on stage emerged as little more than ghostly outlines until the haze cleared, revealing a blitzkrieg of sheer sonic force. An opening salvo of Voodoo People and Omen, ghastly silhouettes flickering across giant screens, drew first blood, the Y Not crowd practically rabid in their need to erupt, while Light Up The Sky lived up to the name, white beams shooting from the crowd back up to the sound tower. A wordless Firestarter arrived with reverence rather than rage — Keith Flint’s outline etched into the screens above like a constellation in memoriam, as if giving the performance his blessing — while Poison saw the air turn sickly green, a miasma of gas choking the crowd; the ironic Breathe, a few songs later, seemed then to serve as both a command and a comfort to the sardines-esque audience. Unrelenting energy that lived up to the hype. 9/10
Written By: James O’Sullivan
