Desertfest London 2025 – Sunday
After killing the morning wandering aimless around Camden, I headed up to Stoner Ally to catch up with Matthew and his companion, swapping stories as the moody weather gave a quieter feel to the proceedings that no doubt reflected some sore heads and third day festival fatigue.
With the exception of Slift, Earth and Dopelord (who naturally fell victim to clashes at the top of the bill) the one band that stood out on the lineup was Austin, Texas Rickshaw Billie’s Burger Patrol making their UK debut at The Underworld in the early evening. However, before that, my scientific approach to filling the day was to throw a metaphorical dart at the bill and see what transpired.
This meant that I found myself upstairs at The Black Heart to watch feral locals Oldblood bring their blackened post-metal to the masses. The packed-out space was treated to an opening full of power slides, cymbal rattling and pounding drums. As death metal growls grew over detonating percussion, it was a markedly different start to the day.
With lingering high notes from the guitar, the duelling rasps and bellows from frontman Brendan Coles, the band treated the audience to a tight set full of post-metal expansiveness that featured strangely melodic undertones, evil sounding screams and teeth chattering reverb. The downtrodden grooves oscillated between hardcore breakdowns and full-on death metal churning that showed they were more than meets the eye. Fetid blasts turning into punk infused insanity as they looked to continue the work from their Arms To The Sky EP in a misery drenched, crushing thirty minutes.
Following a break, it was time to venture to The Underworld for Italy’s heavy psychedelic four-piece Mr Bison. The Tuscan band took to the stage with no fanfare and treated the growing audience to galloping melodies with big sugary chorus’s with wonderful clean vocals from Matteo Sciocchetto. Combining a hazy psych feel with a mammoth bouncing riff that had the audience clapping along in time, they tore through the set that coincided with their lead guitarists birthday who profusely thanked the crowd.
Playing songs from their catalogue, including most recent release Echoes From The Universe, they displayed deceptively heavy, classic rock sensibilities, folk dalliances and tender, spacey, cycling refrains whilst synth/bass player Davide Salvadori stood proud, shirt open, hair blowing in the breeze from the fans like an absolute rock god. Having just a passing knowledge of the band, their set left me wanting to spend more time with their material.
Continuing the spirit of discovery and having read the description of Dunbarrow, I expected a more gloomy, doom laden experience from the Norwegian crew, thinking could there be a more apt Desertfest band? Matthew, who is clearly more professional than myself, was suitably genned up and less surprised when the band took to the stage wearing snazzy shirts and treated us to upbeat, retro flavoured blues rock in the form of Lucifer’s Child.
Vocalist Espen Anderson commanded the stage in an affable manner, his echoing clean vocals varied between half sung, half spoken word proclamations over THE Bruce Dickinson approved cowbell. The rolling drum intro to All Your Secrets invoked a heady lava lamp feel, complete with tambourine, before a huge bloke stood in front of Matthew who promptly moved him into my field of view (thanks mate!) which meant for the majority of the set I got to soak in the Sabbathy doom free of distractions…
Featuring a new track, No More Tomorrow’s, with lurching riffs that rapped (in the old parlance) on tales of Dark Messiah’s with powerful, stretching harmonies that would do Ronnie James Dio proud. After treating us to a cover of Rocky Ericson’s Top Headed Dog, and a rousing finale of Death That Never Dies from their Dunbarrow III album, the band thanked us for enduring the heat and coming to see them.
Speaking of heat, it was time for Rickshaw Billie’s Burger Patrol. Having staked out a good spot, the room filled to an oppressive capacity that was matched only by the climbing temperature, as, with frontman Leo Lydon and his 8-string guitar looking like the bastard offspring of Les Claypool, the band brought their brand of scattershot madness.
Tearing through track after track like the pummelling Peanut Butter Snack Sticks, Whip It Around and Welcome To Clown Town, the band combined growling bass, hammering drums and pyrotechnic fretboard antics that rocked back and forth with the nasal delivery, making this the place to be on the Sunday.
The numbers flew by with 1-800-Eat-Shit seeing the first crowd surfer as they babbled intricate vocals that threw around expletives like confetti against bruising off-kilter rhythms in an atmosphere that can only be described as ‘ball soup’, whilst locals and current darlings of the scene Green Lung looked on. Definitely the had-to-be-there moment of the festival.
Breaking free of the roasting heat to catch the in full flight Slift at Electric Ballroom was a merciful relief and we stood at the back soaking in the Toulouse three-piece tearing through their acid drenched space rock in with aplomb in a track that, according to the setlist, was entitled New Track I.
Backdropped by spectacular, trippy visuals, they treated us to another new number (New Track II) which showcased lively prog instrumentals, bullish vocals and wistful space rock as they moved from slow, captivating passages to a towering metronomic heft that pushed the run time to the twenty-minute mark.
Swirling mellow transitions crashed into heavier sections that ratcheted up the tempo and kept the band from noodling off into smug rock territory. Cranking the tension to the point where it felt like the track was going to fall apart, before reigning back the chaos into a rocking rhythm that reminded me of the control exhibited by the departed At The Drive-In.
Signing off with an epic rendition of The Story, Slift displayed the elegant control that has marked them out as one of the top acts in the scene right now.
Having debated all weekend about whether to buy the slightly disconcerting mustard yellow Desertfest hoodie, I abandoned the Electric Ballroom to run to the merch stand in Greenland Place only to find that half the festival must have drawn the same conclusion and it be sold out. You snooze, you lose. So, I bought the white t-shirt, mentally justifying this by wanting to prove to my family I don’t just wear black.
And so, to Earth… Breaking the ice by asking the crowd if they looked forward to becoming the 52nd state after Canada, Dylan Carlson’s powerful crew returned to the UK for the first time since 2019 to close the Ballroom. Their set was a masterclass in the study of glacial movement with lazy feeling, laidback progressive blues that make their albums like Bees Made Honey In The Lion’s Skull an absolute indulgent treat.
Much as I love the band as background music, I wanted a bit more of an upbeat celebration as a closing vibe to the festival, so I ducked out early and walked past a mocking sea of yellow hoodies back to the sweatbox that was The Underworld for Dopelord.
The Polish quartet took to the stage to a mellow intro tape of lilting voices before the lumbering, elephantine riffing of The Chosen One. With no respite from the baking temperature, the thunderous reverb shook the crowded room and spiralling leads backed lyrics like ‘Command me Lord/You are my only master’ from guitar and vocalist Paweł Mioduchowski.
Whilst my view largely comprised of the back of some bald guy’s head, Dopelord powered through a set featuring highlights like Children Of The Haze (where a guy scaled the central pole and took off his shirt head banging along) Hail Satan (prompting a massive singalong), and Addicted To Black Magik as the party atmosphere exploded in a whirlwind of crowd surfers, stomping chants and old school thrash and punk energy. This was the festival close I came to see.
Concluding with the pairing of Reptilian Sun and Doom Bastards, they left to rapturous cheers and the tolling of a ringing bell having had the audience in the palm of their hand for the entire set.
After that, I hung around trying not to die of dehydration to watch the raucous singalong after party with Electric Funeral as they brought the festival to a delirious conclusion with the obligatory Black Sabbath tribute, paying homage to the band that started it all and somehow reminding me of the quote from German poet Berthold Auerbach, ‘Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life’.
I have no tales to regale you with my journey home if you have made it thus far, save to say I vowed to get myself a hotel room for next year… But reflecting the weekend on the Monday morning train ride, I fear if I deny myself the experience of moments like having to listen to the large tattooed bloke and his petite misses ‘get it on’ in the good shower cubicle next to my substandard one as a parting gift from the weekend, then next year’s write up would be a far duller read.
Thanks, as ever, to Shaman Lee for allowing me the opportunity, and thanks to Desertfest for another cracking year. Until the next time Camden…
Scribed by: Mark Hunt-Bryden
