The Azkena Rock Festival closes a more eclectic edition than usual
It was a bit funny how the elements seemed to conspire to make the Azkena Rock Festival (ARF), which took place from Thursday to Saturday in Vitoria-Gasteiz, as uncomfortable as possible. It started with scorching sun and ended with freezing rain. Everyone can complain about something like that. But even under those circumstances, the organizers estimated the total number of visitors to the venue at 47,000, around 15,000 per day. Once again, and this year for the 23rd time, the festival has proven it has a loyal and long-suffering following, the dream of any festival organizer.
The best thing that can be said about this year's lineup is that it was balanced, which is no small feat. It wouldn't hurt if some year the ARF focused more on the present than the past, after years of wandering like a lost soul. Rock, that umbrella genre under which almost everything fits, is starting to raise its head; there are new artists with substance and a sense of purpose, and if the festival wants to be relevant at some point, it should reflect this. But the veterans, the core around which Azkena is built, performed with flying colors, and that hasn't always been the case.
This year's edition started off strong. Thursday is usually little more than a first impression, but in 2025 there were bigger crowds than ever, perhaps attracted by a stronger lineup than usual on the first day. Buzzcocks were there—or rather, what's left of them, which isn't much, but hey, look, their repertoire is great, and they performed at 7 p.m. Not so bad. Melissa Etheridge, veteran singer-songwriter from Kansas, was energetic and determined; her live performance grew steadily, convincing many who had come to see if a rumor circulating around the venue was true: that Bruce Springsteen would be appearing as a guest artist. "He landed in San Sebastian a while ago," some commented, as irrefutable proof that something was going to happen that, of course, didn't.
It doesn't matter; these tender, backyard-like things are what make the ARF special. Especially in these times when it seems anything that doesn't fill two football stadiums is almost underground. And with all the people who came to the festival over the weekend, we wouldn't have even had a Metropolitano. Nor is there any need for it. Don't let this be taken as a criticism. These days have turned Azkena into a boutique festival. Live it and see it.
Back to what did happen. Dinosaur Jr. on Thursday was the most wonderful disaster of the year. The idea sounded phenomenal: the original lineup, the one that at one time was unwatchable, celebrating the 30th anniversary of Without a Sound, their most popular album. The mind-blowing thing is that they've been doing this for months, and in Vitoria it seemed like they didn't know the album. The frontman, J. Mascis, is the king of laziness, the prince of "I don't care about anything," and the marquis of noise. They said they were going to play the entire album, and they did. In the same order, without showing any interest, and with Mascis playing off-key like a raccoon who'd caught his balls on a box. Since he couldn't remember the lyrics, they drew them out on meter-long panels. Presbyopia, my friends. At many times the vocals seemed to be in Burgos, Lou Barlow's bass in Murcia, and Murph, the drummer, acted as if he had no business bringing coherence to this mess. It was so brutally imprecise that it was wonderful. As fascinating as watching videos of falls on YouTube. There were a handful of occasional moments of incredible brilliance when, at times, it seemed by mistake, all three of them were playing the same song. Watching them, it's easy to empathize with that boredom caused by perfection, that weariness of doing things right, that laziness in worrying about the details. Just go with it and let it all come out as God wants. If it goes well, great. If not, let's see if the next one brings better luck. A ten. After this phenomenon of nature, Lee Rocker, bassist of the Stray Cats, performed as pleasant as taking a cool shower after a sauna. A canonical review of some of his band's most popular songs and rockabilly classics. As a finale, impeccable.
Friday was uneventful, except for the small detail that a fire at a company in Vitoria caused a huge cloud of black smoke to be seen in the sky for several hours from practically every point in the city, and it seemed as if the gates of hell had opened. Inside the venue, everything went as expected. John Lydon's PILs have always been a good idea, but not so well-developed. It's funny to see Lydon displaying the same arrogance he had at 20, but 50 kilos heavier. There was curiosity about Ian Svenonius's new project, Scape-ism, which turned out to be somewhere between Suicide, Silver Apples, and those preacher-like styles that are his trademark. Turbonegro are a steamroller, to the delight of their fans, and John Fogerty was terrific at 80, performing a colossal repertoire with a band of kids, including two of his sons, who covered up the obvious weaknesses of his age. This festival seems made for him, and he was aware of it. A good dose of populism is never a bad thing.
If the rain had held off a little longer on Saturday night, perhaps the Manic Street Preachers concert would have been one of the festival's highlights. They're so professional and respectable that with a little warmth from the audience it could have been memorable. But the rain was pouring down fiercely, and the audience was more concerned with protecting themselves than with what was happening on stage. Hours earlier, that curious phenomenon that is The Lemon Twigs, twenty-somethings who look like they've stepped straight out of a 1970s Californian film, gave a concert so beautiful, so elegant, and so retro that it's very hard to find fault with them. Nor is it possible to say anything bad about someone as elegant as the Englishman Richard Hawley.
At dusk, the Flaming Lips proved they're another imperfectly perfect band. If Dinosaur Jr.'s performance was all laziness, the Flaming Lips are all dedication. The Oklahoma band is happiness without irony, celebration and joy. They're colors, confetti, and giant balloons. Many people wondered if they belong to Azkena; for some of the regular audience, that's not rock, it's pop, anathema. I think they're confused. Rock isn't an Olympic discipline; it's a way of understanding music. Rock is sincerity, not artifice, and the Flaming Lips have plenty of that. In any case, the best thing about the Azkena Rock Festival, this year and any other, is that it lends itself to this kind of passionate, Byzantine discussion. For one weekend a year, nothing is more important than that. I hope it continues for many more years.
EL PAÍS
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