It was a rough start to my first Shaky Knees. After an exhilarating first day capturing The Idles and Deftones, I floated on adrenaline. I stopped with friends for dinner, hid my camera gear in the back of their car, and returned to find a smashed window and every piece of my kit gone. In that moment, I spiraled: it wasn’t just gear, it was the loss of the photos, the creative work erased. But friends leapt into action, helped me piece together replacement bodies and lenses. I refused to let those lowlifes spoil my first Shaky Knees. I carried on, though I still mourn what was lost.
The air was already warm, and the sun was blazing when the gates opened on Day 1, and by mid‑afternoon, festival blankets dotted the rolling hills and dusty grounds. Fest goers wandered with painted faces, groups of friends layered in tie‑dye and denim, decades‑bridging tattoos on arms, and clear bags slung over shoulders. There was a thick layer of dust in the air, a steady breeze through the trees, and the smell of French fry stalls mingling with sunscreen.
Day 1
Sublime came on with that unmistakable groove: reggae‑ska pulses, staccato guitar upstrokes, and that lazy summers‑at‑the‑beach rhythm. “What I Got,” “Wrong Way,” “Santeria” — they played them all. The crowd swayed, and families held children up on their shoulders. The sun was still high, but by the time they hit “Doin’ Time,” shadows were lengthening. Vocals were a little rough here and there, but that’s part of Sublime’s charm: loose but lively.
Idles struck a sharp contrast. Almost immediately, the energy ratcheted up. The moshing area near the front gave way to rough bodies in black tees and Doc Martens. Songs like “Colossus” and “Never Fight a Man with a Perm” featured snarling guitars and thudding drums, with the lead singer, Joe Talbot, snarling and yelling, interacting with the front rows and urging them to scream back. There was raw energy, sweat, leather, voices cracking, and bodies flying. And just when you thought you might need a break, they collapsed into delicate‑quiet moments, giving themselves breathing room before diving back into sonic onslaught.
Pixies felt like a dream: moonlit, soft, loud, and strange. They opened with something gentle, Emma Richardson sang a Peter Ivers and David Lynch cover, “In Heaven,” solo on stage. Once the rest of the band hit the stage, they jolted into more abrasive sections. Black Francis’s distortion drops felt like jolts, Emma Richardson's harmonies lifted things between the rough patches. The crowd held its breath through quieter songs, then burst out in harmonies when the classics came: “Here Comes Your Man,” and “Debaser.”
Deftones closed night one under dimmed, shifting lights. Their set was filled with slow, shimmering intros leading into heavy riffs that shook the stage. Chino’s vocals floated over waves of reverb, then dropped into guttural roars. Their performance of songs from White Pony and Around The Fur had huge emotional weight for me personally. Newer tracks felt polished yet still raw. There’s a reason everyone has connected with private music. The audience, many of them were shoeless, some were dancing, Most were thrashing, and many stood still and looked completely hypnotized.
Day 2
On Day 2, some big puffy clouds moved in, but the temperature felt downright hot and muggy, but bearable, under the tree canopy. Refreshed by a night of rest or a night out on the town, people showed up earlier. Food trucks offered spicy noodles, pizza slices, Titos vodka, and cold beer, and the lines snaked around the festival grounds. Conversations about set times floated all around the festival “Do you want to catch Wet Leg, or stay for Weird Al?"
Die Spitz opened somewhere in the early‑to‑mid afternoon. Fresh faces, new energy. Their set was youthful, rough, and raw around the edges. On the opening song “Red40,” guitar riffs were monstrous, vocals a little shaky and sometimes cracking, but it was all on point. They also have moments where the melody lingers, where the singer hits a note so clean it gives you goosebumps. They may not be huge yet, but the potential is obvious. They are rude and crude, and are for sure the next big thing. This crowd was just as rowdy as the crowd for the Idles, hell, maybe even rowdier. The pit swirled in the middle, and the body floated over the surface.
All‑American Rejects brought back that pop‑rock sing‑along power. “Gives You Hell,” “Swing, Swing,” and other old favorites had people jumping, hugging, and singing. Their new songs didn’t always land as massively, but they fit well in the set.. Between songs, the frontman, Tyson Ritter, joked with the audience and expressed shock and gratitude at the massive crowd that gathered for them. I could tell they didn't expect to draw such a massive number of people, and the band fed off that energy, transporting everyone back to the early 2000s.
Cage the Elephant brought wild energy, swirling guitars, and bass lines that felt almost liquid. The frontman, Matt Shultz, leapt, jumped, and summoned massive pillars of flame, while guitarist Brad Shultz got off the stage to wander into the audience’s arms. The massive sing‑alongs “Cold Cold Cold,” “Trouble,” and “Ain't No Rest for the Wicked” were massive. It felt like everyone had been saving their energy for those moments. Sound swept across the hills, and people’s heads were vibrating from the bass.
Day 3
The crowd’s spirits seemed both tired and still elevated on the third day. Feet sore, voices hoarse from the kicked-up dirt, but still there were smiles everywhere. Vendors were draped with collected glow sticks, and people were launching Frisbees across the lawns.
The Stews kicked off with a bang: openers with attitude. Songs were short, punchy, and sometimes playful. Lead vocals alternated between melodic and rough. The guitar riffs demanded attention. The crowd was warming up, dancing, laughing, many holding drinks, while others sat at the edge, heads nodding.
Devo felt like an alien interlude with costumes, and robotic moves. Songs were spaced with intentional weirdness, pauses, and quirks. The visuals on the screen were surreal. Some in the crowd cheered in recognition, and others laughed in surprise. It wasn’t perfect for everyone, but for those attuned, it was magic. When “Whip It” came, the crowd went nuts for the familiar chorus, shooting hands in the air and doing their best whip action.
Wet Leg were fresh and bold with voices crisp, and guitar lines that sting just enough. Lead singer Rhian Teasdale came out flexing. They opened with “catch these fists.” Between songs, the banter was funny, quick, and self‑aware. When songs peaked, people cheered and danced. The fog rolled across the stage, combined with minimalistic lighting. Their performance didn’t oversell but absolutely delivered.
Alabama Shakes gave one of the festival’s emotional apexes. Frontwoman Brittany Howard came out waving to the crowd, turned to put on her SG guitar, and revealed the words “Fuck ICE” on her back. The crowd erupted, and the band launched into “Future People.” Brittany Howard’s stage presence is demanding. During “Gimme All Your Love,” I saw people closing their eyes, letting her voice fill them. When a note was held, people around me stood still. The lights were low, the sun was setting, the stage was bathed in warm golds, ambers. It felt intimate in a sea of thousands.
Vampire Weekend brought clean riffs, keyboard textures, and harmonies. The crowd had arms raised, with their voices joining lead singer Ezra Koenig’s on songs “Unbelievers” and “Step.” By this point, many were shouting lyrics, trading glances with friends, and dancing. And of course, the dancing guitar tech stole the show for the brief moment he flash-danced on stage. There's something uplifting about a Vampire Weekend set — maybe it's the gleaming tones, the orchestral arrangements, or the lyrical cleverness.
Blink‑182 closed with full force. After each member had a prize fighter type, the stage exploded, flames shot into the air, and they went right into “Rock Show.” After they played “Anthem Part Two,” it seemed like every song was built to make this moment last. They played nostalgic hits, “M+M’s,” “Dumpweed,” and some were even modernized. Their banter was playful, jokes about being old, forgetting lyrics, but you could see the joy. Even the forever stoic Travis Barker had a smirk or two. The crowd sang every word they knew, sometimes off‑key, sometimes perfect, and almost overpowering my earplugs. The final encore was a cover of Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September”. When the last chord rang, the lights faded, and the sky exploded with fireworks overhead, and people cheered on, reluctant to leave.
The theft hurt. The void still echoes. But Shaky Knees 2025 transformed grief into resolve. Through borrowed gear and fierce will, I kept shooting, kept living. I witnessed music, connection, and got a little catharsis.
