The Modern Muse

Tuesday (5/28)

It’s 4am. It’s dark. Mathilde stands frozen in the bathroom. Staring intently into the mirror, into her own soul, onto last nights Dalston shenanigans and the countless Aperols that had only been drunk 3 hours prior. There’s no air of regret but one thing we are certain of: Mathilde is still very very drunk. Primavera has begun early. 

In line to board and upon arrival at the terminal you can tell precisely who is arriving in Barcelona for the same reason, but they still look notably different. A vast lineup means a vast demographic of fans: Y2K goths, Bristol seniors in Deftones merch, a number of girls in crochet dresses who look questionably underage, tattooed millennials, rich girls who read as insta-entrepreneurs, between 9 and 13 mullets; all united, under one sky and one holy RyanAir flight (presumably blessed by the priest I eyed down at security), waiting in the same customs line.

“I feel like this is going to be one of those trips where we have to just let go and…. Be cringe.” Humbled we were — 10 minutes later trembling in the cab, unable to take our eyes off the meter that seems to be increasing by 2 euros every. minute. Are we, too, just as susceptible as our fellow Primavera cohort? We may not have mullets but the leather jackets, sunglasses and cigarettes in hand, American and British accents combined with Mathilde’s French haven’t exactly made us incognito. But hey, we’re in Barcelona, who cares!

12 hours in and we have absolutely lost our minds. We meet actress and fabulosa Lilia Gabbro at the opening of ‘Dear Inn,’ an exhibition featuring and curated by her boyfriend, Dahli Ball, and friends Unai Ricou and Igna Buneri three floors up in an open loft in the town center. Visitors sit on the furniture-less floor smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. The three artists' works are displayed throughout the space. Dahli’s pieces are shockingly impressive; straight out of a time capsule cleared out with a fresh set of eyes. We’ve all developed some metaphorical TMJ from having our jaws dropped for 12 hours straight. How is EVERYONE here SO hot and SO happy? How are all of these beautiful people tucked into these tiny streets? They seem to be breathing life into one another. 

Wednesday (5/29)

The sun is out and The Vincci Bit has served Mathilde and I possibly the sexiest hotel breakfast we’ve ever had. 7 coffees in and I’m writing on the Vincci roof terrace in my bikini. I look over to Liv, who’s laying on a sun lounger on the phone, telling the recipient “to just reel back and let the vibes take over.” Liv pops back to the room and finds Mathilde meditating on the bed. The Barca lifestyle has truly taken over and we haven’t stepped foot in the Parc del Forum. 

But reality always manages to find its way back — this time in the form of my very red sunburn, proving my role as designated ‘Brit abroad.’ If it wasn’t already the broken attempts to speak Spanish with a Manchester accent, it is extremely clear now — we do no good job at blending in.

We walk into Poblenou for a pre-Primavera spritz — or more exactly Estrella for Liv, Aperol for Mathilde, and Sangria for myself. It’s an area close to where we’re staying and recommended by our Barcelona spirit-guide Lilia. 

8:30 PM rolls around and it’s time for night 1 Primavera. We take the scenic route along the coastline to get to Parc del Forum. An incredible and tacky in its finest form marriage proposal is happening on the beach… we are feeling the Barcelona love tonight.

9:19 PM we arrive amidst floods of Spanish teens in baggy jeans and tanks, hippy holidayers in bird shirts and garish pants and Berlinified mullet-heads clad in all black and leather. There are SO many hot guys at the Aperol pop-up. Mullet no.1 is spotted in its badly bleached glory accompanied by a fellow turquoise-dyed head. We march on with one mission in mind: Aperol.

All we can now think of is stripes. Classically French, vertical, red and black, blue and white, on tank tops, long sleeves, dresses and pants — stripes are the unexpected Primavera trend. Bleached denim. Tracksuits. Adidas stripes. Emo teens with their eyeliner. Mullet gays and their white tanks.

In planning a press trip to an international festival, we failed to consider the fact we had to get quotes from people who are presumably not native English speakers. We pile together our resources: French Mathilde plus Liv and I’s pieced-together high school Spanish. Thank the lord for Duolingo which Liv has been practicing routinely on the sun loungers each morning. With a Spritz in each hand, all felt right in the world. 

Mullets 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 are ahead of us in the queue. And what a range we have stumbled upon. Bleached and brown curly-haired ones stuffed under caps and paired with denim overalls. Behind us, a certain bleach blonde mullet signals the Berlinification of Primavera — dressed in all black, sunnies and completed with a mustache. 

Phoenix begins their set as we reach the front of the Aperol queue. ‘It’s ok, as long as they don’t start with Lisztomania’… And like clockwork, it plays. We run off to the stage — pissed off the Aperol, dizzy from the heatstroke or just pure adrenaline, I don’t know — we manage to squash ourselves into the crowd. People are giddy and dancing to the band’s nostalgic 2010s sounds — you can’t not love it. A man behind us bald with a thick mustache loses 10 years as he leaps into the sky up and down like a boy. They tell us this is their favourite festival. Liv is absolutely going for it. Mathilde realises that, like her, they are French hotties “and now I’m really into it”. And hotties they are — Silver Fox Thomas Hedlund dominates the drums in a Hawaiian shirt. Liv says all she wants is for someone to pick her up and ‘spin her around like a pizza’. Thomas, drummer of Phoenix, is more than capable of this. 

Wednesday night is a celebration, a party of letting go, the perfect starting headliner to Primavera’s insane line-up.

The true star of night one, however, is Mathilde who braved the crowds in open-toe heels. What courage and bravery it takes, and in hindsight will never be taken again.

The set ends and Mathilde’s heels are now on my feet as she darts in and around the food tents in my gold converse. Freed from toe suffocation, she is high on life, on adrenaline, flirting with the burger man and nicking all of the mayo from the kebab shop. Burgers and bed.

Lessons of the day:

1. Learn how to apply sun cream properly

2. Don’t wear open-toed heels to a festival

3. Watch out for people wearing open-toe heels at a festival

4. Gabi’s hair must always be in a ponytail at the festival

5. You don’t need a biker jacket in 80-degree weather

Thursday (5/30)

The start of Primavera day 2 — which no surprise involves sangria, bocadillos and matching I <3 Barcelona thongs. Vampire Weekend boyfriend and Deftones girlfriend walk past us at the cafe. Mathilde spots her airport crush as we pass through the Press entrance — “He looks like Peter Pan in a hot way”.

Entering the festival, one thing is clear to us: steer clear of the kebab shop. Mathilde is surely a wanted woman after last night's mayo shenanigans. 

We are strutting around the site to the soundtrack of Renaldo & Clara. It’s pretty early still but we’re easing into the day. With a hefty lineup we’ve set our sights on Freddie Gibbs & Mad Lib, the post-punk chaos of Amyl & the Sniffers, an interview lined up with Chino of Deftones, ending the night with the party girl sounds of Peggy Gou. What a day to be had.

We take a turn of the festival, passing through the amphitheater-like Cupra stage (where I mistake Arab Strap for a Belle and Sebastian song) we follow a ramp down to the sea. A dome-like metal structure has drawn crowds of TikTok techno goth kids, mullets with biker sunnies, countless fans and tank tops, hypnotised by the purple-white glowing BOILER ROOM sign beckoning them in. These kids know how to have a good time. In a form of ritualistic worship with DJ Negro pres. The Noise at the center. We know this crowd won’t be seeing the sun this weekend.

Parc del Forum, in its combination of concrete structuring topped with mega solar panels, sea-facing pop-up islands and many a ramp reminds me of going for a jog on Wii Sports. All sorts of Miis passing us by, some heavily stylized in a just-walked-out-of-a-Y2K-music-video type of way, a group of gays in matching neon pink caps, and Deftones T-shirts galore. 

Freddie Gibbs and Madlib killed it for their 10-year anniversary Piñata show. Gibbs attempts to leave the stage three times despite his surrendering return to hysterical cries from the crowd. ‘Why is he so fucking hot?’ A British guy next to me shouts ‘he’s the coolest guy I ever seen’. 

Fur boots have managed to sneak their way into the Primavera’s styled crowds. A bleach-blonde girl with knee-high yeti boots stomps past us — surely her feet are not ok. Fashion is pain I suppose?

Amyl and the Sniffers arrive on stage in a clash of sounds that makes the crowd absolutely wild. Mosh pits open up as we speed off out of the crowd, part protecting Mathilde’s camera, and off to collect our passes to interview Chino of Deftones.

We are granted golden tickets in the form of artist wristbands in order to be escorted to meet the beloved Deftones frontman, Chino Moreno. Packed into a tight artist trailer, we delve into our oddly intuitive superstitions, the politics of the red pill, hotel coffee machines, and cowboy hats. We bid adieu to Chino as we anxiously await his reappearance a few hours from now, this time however separated by the Amazon Music stage. 

It is always a pleasure to be backstage, but what better way to be reminded than a physical trophy of the experience? We bump into the one and only Rex DeTiger — keeper of custom business cards — backstage while he prepares to go on with Roosevelt. Fue un placer conocerte entre bastidores en Primavera Sound 2024. A pleasure it is, Rex, and a pleasure it will always be.

“Press has never been sexier” Liv shouts as we dance our asses off at L’Imperatrice. Clad in space-age silver gilets with glowing orbs on the chests and shoulders this set is groovy AF. Mathilde is now the one jumping up and down like a little boy. This is a sexy show. Transporting us into some alternative French disco universe, we are hooked by the band’s illuminating power (not to be confused with the glowing orbs clad on their shoulders). “L’Imperatrice are the best and that’s why I came here” Barcelona native Silvia tells me. She has come to Primavera to see two French artists — Justice being the other. This crowd is having the time of their lives, communicating through emoji language: peace signs, hearts, flicking their wrists to the French space siren sounds. ALLEZ ALLEZ ALLEZ. Hysterical is an understatement. This is one huge disco.

Suddenly, we are gunning it back to the Amazon Music stage — Deftones hosted the most hardcore fanbase of the festival so far. Headbanging in a perfect synchronization that would suggest a melody somewhere deep into the clashing sounds that if you know, you know. Chino’s stage presence is hypnotic and borderline cultish. Enraptured, we are in the pit. The front row embraces us. We’re evidently not dressed in the uniform of Deftones t-shirts, black eyeliner, some crazy tone of hair dye or bleach, and bondage-styled tops; yet somehow we manage to fit right in, bound by the collective and somehow coordinated practice of head-banging.

Before we know it, we’ve run across the festival grounds to Pulp. “My name’s Jarvis and I love Barcelona” the singer’s Sheffield twang rings out to the crowd. In an overwhelming display of showmanship, Cocker flocks about the stage dancing like your gay uncle on Christmas. It is a light show soundtracked by a full-on orchestra who he refers to as ‘some very very common people’ (?!?!). Returning for an encore, he throws sweets and grapes into the audience in classic grandpa behavior. It’s a midnight set and the all-aged crowd is absolutely loving it. We are dancing to ‘Common People’ in the VIP area.

2:00 AM on the dot, Peggy Gou took what was left of my soul. Her set unleashed the party girl I didn’t know I still had in me. Dancing into the photo pit like it was nobody’s business, it becomes very clear that it was in fact not our business, as we were politely escorted out and placed back into our rightful place — the GA pit. An Insta DJ in her natural habitat, all the baby tees and bralette crowds have amassed, party-protected by their skinny sunnies and chunky silver jewelry, all wrapped around her finger. 

4:00 AM We peel Mathilde from the crowd, this girl is running on pure adrenaline and this moment. We trek back to the Vincci bit and prepare ourselves for tomorrow.

Friday (5/31)

Gasping awake, my sinuses are broken, air-con or beer or cigarettes, all I am sure of is that I am physically weak. Solo missions take me to the blue cafe for an omelet, coffee, coke, juice, and a pack of Camel Blues: every hangover cure rolled into one.

If yesterday can be summed up by our I <3 Barcelona panties, VIP sexiness, and hardcore Deftones head banging, Friday was the day/night of I <3 Sex thongs, the Lana del Stampede, and Snow Strippers.

Smirnoff Ice in one hand, all-access artist wristband on the other, we glide past the long press queue into the venue. We head to meet SCOWL, hardcore punk band hailing from Santa Cruz, to chat briefly and grab some portraits, all whilst crammed in amidst the tiled backdrops of their glamorous dressing room showers. 

5:15 PM Post-SCOWL and we are heading towards the Estrella Damm stage when a guy stops us asking where Lana will be playing. This was Mohammad, 23 from Egypt and living in Germany who came to Primavera alone just for Lana. She is on in five hours and he is heading right now to camp out at the stage; He hopes it’s not too crowded, ‘I want to be on the front row if possible.’ As we pull up to the entrance of the stage it becomes immediately clear that Mohammad will most likely not be making it to the front row. Thousands of Americana-clad Lana fans are sardined and cordoned off at each entrance, barely contained by the security as tensions and anticipation start to rise. We wish Mohammad good luck as he sprints off into the distance, ‘Chemtrails over the Country Club’ bouncing up and down his back getting further and further away from us.

Day 2 is LanaFest, we’re Lana del Afraid. Barriers open and a herd of prairie dresses, ribbons, bow, red black and white lace and heart shaped sunglasses come stampeding right at us. They’re young, they’re wild, they’re free. “We’re gonna get stampeded by little girls!” Liv screams. A guy breaks free of the security barriers, running for his life through the field — ‘Be Free’ is emblazoned on his back, arms in the air. Little Lana fairies are fleeing into all corners. Lace, veils, cherries and flower crowns unite under one shared mission of waiting out the following five hours together. God bless any band that dares play before Lana.

5:45 PM In the thick of the crowds and Mohammad passes us by — he’s gone to the wrong stage! We wish him well once more as he again flees off into the mist of the crowd - a literal mist as dust clouds produced by masses of cowboy boots. The crowd is filling up and we decide this isn’t our battle to fight today. We are Lana del Done for Now.

Over at the Cupra stage, the Lana del Strays gather — a London-style crowd with edgier pairings of prairie skirts with tight-fit football jerseys, cowboy boots and more clips than hair, sacrificing their front row pitches for The Last Dinner Party. Lead singer Abigail Morris prances around the stage like a new-wave queer second coming of Jesus Christ. 

We meet DJ Spanish Fly backstage, and upon greeting us he hands us each a custom sticker from a pile he’s got ready in the pocket of his full Puma tracksuit. Checkerboard stripes up the legs and arms and whistle round the neck, we were blessed by his grounding presence — our Primavera priest sending us on our way into the dark and unholy night…

Yet again darting across the festival, we pack ourselves into the already full capacity VIP deck as we prepare to be submerged in pure ecstasy for Troye Sivan B2B Lana del Rey. Hell yeah. 

Next thing we know, we are surrounded by the hottest gay men in Spain. Did Miuccia Prada fly them all out and deliver them directly to the VIP section of Troye Sivan’s set? These are some of the sexiest and most crisp-dressed men we have ever seen. A “Gay Psy-Ops” as Dorian Electra perfectly puts it during our interview the next day. Do they all know each other? Are they staying on some magical island that only gorgeous gay men know of? As Troye performs his last song by making out with one of his back-up dancers in leather chaps, it becomes clear that “there’s no worse feeling than being horny around gay men.” Suddenly, and unironically, we have found ourselves searching for the Lana del Straights.

Summing up Lana’s show: she is an incredibly beautiful and angelic being who made me and Liv cry and blessed our souls in the 40 minutes she graced us with her presence. Mathilde pissed herself, Liv tried to. We meet Brendan (NYC) and Lara (Toronto) in the VIP deck. ‘She is the people’s princess!’ Lara tearfully exclaims at the end of the set. ‘La loca chica’ Brendan chimes back.

Snow Strippers is absolute mania. The electroclash high-speed sounds are popping off in the Warehouse x Dice stage — an underground parking garage — a rave surrounded by the hardcore crowd merging mullets, black sunnies, and tanks with pops of neon pink and green. 

Paying 3 euros for a glass of water was a sober slap in the face as we left with the intention of shooting the Arca crowds and found ourselves bumping into some Lana del Straights in the form of 2 Danish boys who tell us they are here on one mission: Looking for Lana.

They call us the ‘discount girls.’ Maybe they’re right? We have managed to finesse our way through this whole festival. Backstage, VIP areas, we’ve been living our best lives. Toilet queues? Entrance queues? Do we even know what that means anymore?

The night ended in utter chaos and loss of composure and of each other — soundtracked by Arca.

Saturday (6/1)

Feeling feral today. Can’t quite put our finger on it but there’s a specific energy in the air.

We meet office alum Dorian Electra, who absolutely shifts our states and puts us in the best of moods. We were dying and Dorian brought us back to life through a discourse on weird sex dreams and ambien horror stories, all whilst confined to a glass box directly adjacent to the festival admissions gates titled the ‘Press Hub.’

There’s a lot of I <3 logos knocking about today: Barcelona, boobs, hot moms, hot dads, NY, MCR… People are keeping it simple and sweet for the final day.

We find our way to Boiler Room Backstage, where we meet Tati and Graham of Snow Strippers, taking shelter behind the VIP bar. Nick Leon joins us. We’re cut short with thunderstorms six miles away.

“I don’t wanna live like common people” Liv shouts out into the night as the bouncers shepherd everyone from the VIP crowd. How the tables truly have turned for us.

We battle the storm through the last of the lineup: Bikini Kill, Channel One and Charli XCX. I become the designated festival boyfriend, Northern roots kicking in like I was waterproof. Donated and swapping out my jeans and long sleeve for Mathilde and Liv’s mini-skirts and strappy tops – like a game of musical chairs, we traded pants and tops as the night saw fit... In fact, between the three of us Saturday night saw three outfit swaps until the power of Charli frees Liv of pants completely and we lose ourselves in the crowd of Primavera’s final set. 

The festival ends for us as all festivals tend to — a blackout. Due to the rain, we lose all photographic evidence at this point in order to protect the cameras. 

The next morning we crawl into the lift to find ‘Welcome to Primavera’ removed from the mirror… (like it never happened?)...

Having sought out recovery in a ham and cheese sandwich, we dare make our way into central Barcelona and hole up in the bliss of Antic Teatre’s hidden garden. There we meet London-based Eric, Daniel and Nikky for some post-Primavera cervezas. Sharing Primavera highlights, they too obsessed over L’Imperatrice, however one individual stood out to them: “The Arca Demon Twink” (ADT abbreviated). The ADT was ‘tiny’, ‘gorgeous’ and giving Timothee Chalamet vibes. The ADT is unforgettable. The ADT has become incorporated into their everyday speech, ‘Don’t go ADT on me tonight.’ Who are you, Arca Demon Twink?