Kevin Abstract

Day 1 - Thursday, June 4th

I’m at Primavera Sound in Barcelona with my ex-girlfriend and it looks like the sea is going to storm on us. It was drizzling earlier and some of the festival baddies are wearing ponchos but I don’t believe in rain. We get in and get a lay of the land, surveying the massive Parc de Forum. It’s a choose-your-own-adventure, and we decide to go see Blood Orange. When we get to the Revolut main stage, we run into Veronica from Church Electronic, and together the 3 of us bask in Dev Hynes’ brilliance. I’ve never seen him live before, and his band is resplendent; Eva Tolkin and Ian Isaiah take vocal lead on most songs while Dev conducts. The band was tight, as Tariq Saleem Al-Sabir provides a steady backbeat for the blissful alternative R&B/Synth Funk. It’s a great start.

We head to see Geese on the other side of the festival grounds. When Cameron Winter emerges on stage in an Adidas jumper and launched into “Husbands”, a shock wave of energy was set through the increasingly soaked crowd. Umbrellas were flying, ponchos were tearing, and by the time we reach the raucous “2122” (with an interpolation of "Interstellar Overdrive" by Pink Floyd in the middle), the crowd is worked up into a frenzy.

As they open “Mysterious Love,” Cameron strips his jumper off, revealing a white tank top. He’s really belting by the end, and they finish with “Trinidad,” I venture towards the pitt. Next to me, a guy pleads with everyone to stay safe. They do not. Limbs flail, and people are slipping everywhere. I catch a glimpse of Cameron bathed in gold light with rain streaming onto him, and it’s hard not to mythologize the moment. Around us are mumbling skeptics and Geese sycophants, but most are converted by the end of the set.

We walk in a daze to the Pavillion that has the largest roof anywhere in the Parc de Forum in order to get cover from the rain. Everyone has the same idea, and suddenly we’re practically in a crowd crush. Rumours are abound; apparently a speaker fell at the main stage, and all the headline acts are cancelled for the day. We’re soaked and hungry, so we head back home. People are streaming out alongside us, disappointment and frustration plastered on their faces. The festival baddies have covered their tassels with ponchos and the mascara is streaming.

A quick taxi takes us back to a warm hotel room, where we strip our soaked clothing and order Thai Food. It’s not even 2 minutes after it arrives when my friend Dom texts me. “We left but FJM just went on.” I open Instagram and Primavera has posted that Massive Attack is going to perform at 12:30. I throw the phone at my ex (let’s call her B). My Instagram comment elicits a response from their social media, and the screenshot ended up on the Primavera subreddit as news. Dom calls me. Fine, we’re going back.

After a taxi, we break into a sprint to try to find Dom at Massive Attack. It's full of millennials slipping all over the place, but the energy seems optimistic, and the rain has ceased. At 1:15, a panicked sense of knowing ripples through the crowd, and people start leaving. A drunk girl with a mousy face tells us that the festival posted again, and that Massive Attack is not going on. Immediately, the regret sets in, and the storm begins anew. When it rains it pours, I guess.

Not all is lost. Dom is heading towards 2Hollis, a fine consolation prize even if he didn’t make “Mezzanine.” When I get to the front towards the stage, a festival staff member is hyping up the crowd, people are still pissed off. Suddenly, 2Hollis imagery casts a white brightness onto us. Our consolation prize steps out, and a girl next to me literally screams so loud that her voice cracks and she bursts into a coughing fit.

He commands the pit to open and it does so, rapturously, upon his command. Hollis is wearing a suede jacket, tight pants, and dark sunglasses. He flips his hair in a rehearsed way, but it has the desired effect. His aura genuinely overtakes the crowd. We find ourselves in a rage-inflected rave.  I’m exhausted from the long day, but something overtakes me and I decide to join my first mosh since I had double leg surgery in 2019. I thought my moshing days were over, but “Star” had other ideas. At the last second, Dom grabs me and jumps in. We’re jostling, and even though I’m only 23, I feel transported to pre-COVID times. It’s pure catharsis, EDM excess to make us forget the wind and claustrophobia of earlier. This time, we can shove and push the unreasonable amount of bodies that engulf us.

Day 2 - Friday, June 5th

We stagger out of the hotel in a daze and head to a supermarket. I buy cigarettes and B buys bananas. When we reach the Parc de Forum, signs of yesterday's chaos are everywhere. I see a girl with a fresh eyepatch, and a tattoo-covered blonde boy with a makeshift sling.  We hustle to the main stage again, and stake our place for the day. Slowdive are on stage now, playing their shoegaze classics. We sit and sip our overpriced mixed drinks, soaking in the sun. B has acid, and we debate whether it’s a good idea to take it amongst 70,000 people. I’ve never done acid before. We decide to take it during Ethel Cain’s set so that it hits during The Cure.

Ethel Cain has hit the stage, and there’s half a tab on my tongue. I’ve never done LSD before, but I feel present and ready. She looks goth as fuck and has admirable stage presence as she oscillates between the dream-pop of “Preacher's Daughter” and the drawn-out slowcore of “Willoughby Tucker, I'll Always Love You”. She’s the perfect mix of pop and experimental for a crowd that is mentally preparing for the shot-chaser of Addison Rae into The Cure. I find the crushed dream-pop of “Ptolomaea” captivating, but the tracks from Willoughby Tucker, strong vocals aside, bore me. It seems like there’s a prolonged build-up to what is supposed to be a purifying release, but it falls kinda flat to my taste. I begin to feel a bit lighter, and I realise the acid is hitting. I need to pee.

After Ethel we split up, and I'm solo. With no phone service, I find myself in a bathroom line, and I strike up a conversation with a lady named Glynis. She tells me she’s from Newcastle, and we quickly bond over our love of English guitar-rock. Apparantly, Glynis worked at a record store in the early 90’s and was the first person in Newcastle to get hip to Portishead. “It’s my claim to fame.” As we slowly work our way down the line, the acid really starts to kick into gear, but I love talking music, and Glynis is a riot. She brought up her kids on a steady diet of critically acclaimed 80’s and 90’s bands. I commend her for her parenting. When I emerge from the porta-potties, she’s waiting for me, and we exchange information. I need to find my friends.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I find them. Addison Rae has started on the Revolut main stage on the right, but we make our way to the Estrella Damm, which is stage left. I’m feeling a bit out of my body, but Addison is putting on a show, so I lock in. The Britney Spears of it all is evident, but it works. It’s pure pop excess, with dancers, outfit changes, and elaborate stage design. Seeing a main pop girlie live during her ascent has been on my bucket list, and it’s fun as hell. Her creative direction is second to none, wearing its influences on its sleeve in a cheeky, campy way. Addison is alluring, a pop temptress with clear intentions and strong worldbuilding. She’s painted in a hazy pink hue thanks to the LSD, and at the end of her set, confetti cannons shoot red paper into the night sky.

I wasn’t prepared for The Cure as a religious experience. We could have been sober and it would have felt the exact same. We’re surrounded by people of all ages, from talkative Italian Gen Xers to Irish twenty-somethings eagerly awaiting the presence of Robert Smith. It’s been 3 years since The Cure last performed, when they toured for 2024’s “Songs of a Lost World,” their first album in 16 years. They begin with “Alone,” the first track off that record. An older man behind me to the left, in full Robert Smith makeup, starts crying when Smith finally begins belting after a dramatic build up. At 67, Smith’s voice sounds like it’s been preserved in amber. Gradually, the gravity of the moment becomes clear. So many icons of Smith’s generation have either passed away or stopped performing. When they break into “Pictures of You,” the emotions start flowing out of me. The acid is in full effect now.

I feel a strange sense of calm, fully present in the moment. By the time we reach “Lovesong,” it truly hits that this is a defining musical experience in my life. I will never be 23 on acid, smoking a cigarette, watching Robert Smith belt one of the greatest love songs ever penned. “However far away / I will always love you / However long I stay / I will always love you.” The guitar-rock cacophony blends with the audience echoing his every word. He’s doing the opposite of phoning it in, gesturing appropriately, and emoting theatrically. He seems extremely pleased with himself. God, Robert Smith is adorable.

I tell Dom and B that this already feels like a memory. I can still see it so clearly. And God, do they have range. They are truly an arena rock band, fully formed and still kicking. On “In Between Years,” the audience yells the synth lead. We reach “Endsong” after half an hour, and my legs are aching, but these are some of the last remaining Rock Gods of the 20th century. We commit to sticking it out. I embrace Dom and B as Smith saunters towards our side of the stage for “Why Can't I Be You?,” sticking his tongue out and channeling the heavens. During “Boys Don’t Cry,” we try to beat the crowd surge out. I step on someone's foot, and he shoves me, which jarrs me out of the acid euphoria into reality.

B and I walk around in a daze, mystified by what we just witnessed. We soak in the festival for a few more hours, unable to go see another performance. Still stunned, we struggle for an hour to hail a cab before deciding the tram is our best option. It’s 4 am now, and the tram pulls up, people packed like sardines. It’s a nightmare of a commute, and I watch the Knicks win in our hotel. I am happy.

Day 3 - Saturday, June 6th

It’s 5:30 pm and we’ve just woken up. Fuck. I drink the hotel coffee, and then we get some fruit and grab a taxi towards the festival. Our driver has a blaring high-pitched noise emanating from his car that doesn’t stop the whole ride. I deserve this for how many times I’ve stolen cold brew from CVS. He drops us off, and we walk to get our first meal of the day - fried chicken with a side of a fried chicken sandwich. I will pay for this later, probably. We hustle towards the main stage, Estrella Damn, to see the back half of Big Thief’s set. Adrianne Lenker is resplendent, and her band is tight. We meet Dom and Veronica outside of the press area and head to see Little Simz. It’s been exactly a year since her last record, where she waxed lyrical about her ex-best friend and close collaborator Inflo. Her drummer’s kick echoes into the sunset, and she’s beaming. She races through some tracks from “Lotus” before cleverly hopping behind the boards for an impromptu “DJ Simba” set, wherein she hypes up the crowd while rapping along to some tracks. Then, it’s a greatest hits of her discography. I didn’t recognize how well her music would translate to a festival environment - she has genre-ranging bangers.

Simz finishes, and we go to get some wine. It’s dark now. My Bloody Valentine is about to go on. We linger in the back, sipping our wine as they take the stage. Their pink Loveless visuals outline a couple making out on an elevated surface in front of me. B and Dom lie down because they are tired, and I talk to some indie kids from Kentucky who are excited to see The xx. I’m going to Dijon. We enter the Capra pavilion for Dijon and take our seats on the stairs. We take some Vitamin K. Dijon is fucking with the songs from his sprawling, experimental R&B/synth pop album “Baby”, my 2024 album of the year. He emphasizes every oddity and idiosyncrasy to make it cacophonous, loud, distorted, and low-fi. I go and grab a Redbull with Rum because B doesn't like vodka. The bartender likes my eyeliner, and I like her piercing. She gives me a free shot, so I’m a bit fucked when Dijon launches into “Higher”, a song that sounds like church on Mars. 

In a warped voice Dijon tells us how much he loves his wife, Joana, over and over, and then goes straight into a harmony-filled version of “Automatic” chock full of blaring synths. After a noisy ending, we rush towards the main stage to get a good spot for our final headliner, Gorillaz. We catch the end of The xx’s set, and I’m grateful for it. They tastefully weave in Jamie Xx solo cuts like “Loud Places,” and they finish strong with a remixed version of their iconic song “Intro.” It makes me feel like I could've been a good millennial.

Gorillaz hit the stage and the K hits me. They begin with “The Mountain,” the title track off of their latest album. As soon as the cartoon characters 2-D, Noodle, Murdoc, and Russell appear on the massive screen, the crowd erupts in a fervor. During the career-spanning setlist, Damon Albarn brings out singer-songwriter Kara Jackson for “Orange County,” and South-African artist Moonchild Sanelly for “With Love to an Ex”. She twerks on Damon. The band launches into “Stylo,” and Mos Def emerges. He stays for the politically charged “Damascus,” and embraces Little Simz as she returns to the mainstage for “Garage Palace.” After a mournful performance of “The Shadowy Light,”, Posndous from De La Soul emerges to introduce “Feel Good Inc.”, before the obligatory hit “Clint Eastwood”. Damon mumbles some Spanish, and the band take a bow.

It’s late now, but drugs are fueling us, and after some fried chicken, we meet Dom at a Nick Leon DJ set on the other side of the festival. We’re waiting for Ecco2k at 4:00 am, and I go solo again during Ninajirachi’s DJ set to fill our empty water pack. We get a good spot for the Swedish cult hero, front right, and he emerges in smoke like a cloud-rap deity. When he starts with “AAA Powerline,” it’s incredibly loud. I put in earplugs and soak in the drainers and ravers. Ecco delivered, but we are exhausted and leave halfway through the set.

On the train home, I feel like I'm vibrating. Every act I’ve crossed off my list was one I’ve never seen before. Yes, I missed Father John Misty and Massive Attack, but I lived music the whole weekend. I’ve been a festival skeptic for years, but this one lived up to the hype of its unmatched curation. For the rain, all is forgiven, Primavera.