Friday 15 May 2026
It’s Friday! The weather’s… mixed, and it’s time to commence one of the best weekends in London for lovers of all that’s loud and heavy, as Desertfest celebrates fifteen years of taking over Camden venues and turning them into temples to The Riff (although not its actual fifteenth festival here, as there was the small matter of a pandemic to deal with at one point). I’ve been going most years since 2014, but this is the first time in a while I’ve been able to go on all three days, which as a man in his fifties is actually quite a daunting prospect.
So of course, the sensible thing to do is to have a warm-up pint (or a “support beer”, as they’re possibly known in the music industry) at The Black Heart, in many ways the nerve centre of the operation. This year Greenland Place has all the usual Desertfest-related stalls — festival merch, records, tattoos and jewellery, as well as (on the next two days) the Sky Valley stage, for appearances, Q&As and the like. And The Black Heart is the ideal (and traditional) location to have that important first pint of the day.
And so to my first band. Upstairs at the Black Heart, which is a small venue but with a great sound system, it’s absolutely rammed for Kushthulhu (there’s always at least one band every year that I check out purely based on the name) and they make a suitably monstrous start to my weekend. A two-piece from London, Kushthulhu deal in minimalist sludge / stoner riffs and maximalist volumes. For the most part they’re epic noise psychedelia, but occasionally slip into sounding somewhat akin to what can only be described as a less mechanical Godflesh. All of which makes it a perfect start to the afternoon.
Sitting outside in a mass of metalheads, an increasing amount of whom are wearing pointy red gnome hats (of which later) I get chatting to a guy who has come to see Causa Sui, who are on later, and who I add to my itinerary on his recommendation. Then it’s time to meet Dave and go to The Underworld to catch doom legends Witchsorrow.On the verge of releasing their fourth album, The Devil And All His Works, Witchsorrow bring the crushing heaviness. On record they sound awesome, but I found the vocals a bit clean in places (which is more a personal preference thing than a failing of the band themselves), but live they absolutely kill it.
The obvious reference point is Electric Wizard, because this is all built on a similar foundation of slow, grinding riffs (though they also know how to kick it up and get moshpit-friendly when it counts), though they’re coming at it more from the ’70s horror angle of witch hunts and the Spanish Inquisition than the Wizard’s ’70s horror angle of biker gangs and acid cults; kind of like a far chunkier Witchfinder General. Also their t-shirts are only like fifteen quid, so that’s my first probably unwise but definitely unregretted merch purchase of the weekend.
Across a sea of swaying pointy red cones, they give us an hour of musical craziness wrapped around heavy riffs but still hard to pin down while I drink another pint that was, of course, served to me by someone ALSO wearing a gnome hat.
They’ve got the lot — accessible hooks, catchy classic rock, tricksy time changes and hard space rock riffing (as well as some angular spiral soloing that doesn’t actually SOUND anything like Mastodon’s “Bladecatcher”, but probably gets its wrongly-directed mail sometimes), but most of all they’re super fun. And now I get why so many people are wearing the fucking hats. I doubt I’ll be wearing one when they support Green Lung in December, but I definitely plan to get there in time to see them again.
Then Hermano take the stage. Something of a supergroup, they feature members of Earshot and Supafuzz, and are fronted by John Garcia, who, as “the Kyuss dude”, is something of a patron saint of desert rock, and by extension Desertfest itself. Every bit as heavy and crunchy as anything that’s gone before today, they’re a much more song-focused prospect, adding an element of good-time rock’n’roll to the proceedings, with Garcia giving something of a Bruce Campbell vibe in his later years.
They’re great, and I stick around for a few songs even though I am totally flagging at this point, and eventually, having survived the gnome hats, I fail my saving throw against “everyone in this band is wearing a cape” and decide to call it a day.
Seriously, I would have stuck around longer, but there are two more days of this to go, so figure bedways is rightways for this ageing malchick. But we’re off to a fucking strong start!Saturday 16 May 2026
Fortunately today the line-up is strong enough that that’s not really a problem. But first to the merch stall. I head for Green Lung’s (because their merch game is strong as fuck) and am disappointed to see they don’t have the Desertfest exclusive design, so I buy another equally awesome one instead. Then I turn round to go to the bar, see the Desertfest stall, and there they are. Reader, I bought one of those too. Resolving to do no more shopping for non-liquid goods this weekend, I drink my beer and wait for Dave, wardrobe safely esconced in my bag.
Then it’s Wytch Hazel. Wytch Hazel are a curious anomaly, being a Christian band (I mean, they say they don’t like the tag, but boy do they play into it. Mind you, theologically they’re basically just following in the footsteps laid down by Black Sabbath’s “After Forever”) who have, by virtue of a tour with Green Lung and also rocking REALLY hard, managed to garner a significant pagan / Satanist following. And I honestly can’t think of a better example of interfaith outreach.
Clad all in white (with the exception of Colin Hendra’s gold cape, and this time I succeed in my saving throw and am totally sold) and with crosses everywhere, they really commit to the bit, giving us an hour of righteous (on many levels) Judas Priest and Thin Lizzy-style metal riffing, and because they’re so awesome the whole thing, which should seem absolutely unviable on paper, really works.
This is the second time I’ve seen them, and both times they’ve absolutely rocked. And the confusion value of seeing a sea of arms throwing the horns at a guy singing about Jesus is something that really has to be experienced to be believed. As Funkadelic would have said of Samson, they tear the roof off the sucker. With Green Lung later tonight, it’s a real shame Church Of The Cosmic Skull had to cancel, because their apocalyptic cultist vibe would have really bridged the theological gap nicely. But fear not, we’ve got Elephant Tree instead, who I watch from upstairs.Now, the thing about grunge is that most people remember it as being a revival of punk with a dash of metal, but there was a whole strain that was all about making it OK for the cool kids to listen to Sabbath again. And Elephant Tree feel kinda like the culmination of thirty years of evolution from there. There’s obviously a bit of Melvins in there — they are playing Desertfest, after all — and at times they feel like a warm Neurosis, with bits of Thirteenth Step-era A Perfect Circle, but the alchemy they make from this combination is something quite wonderful to behold.
I decide to stay upstairs for Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs (and don’t come at me with that “P*gs B* S*ven” shit, I won’t even say it. If you’re going to give your band an unwieldy name, you stick to that. Especially if it’s as badass a name as Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs. And ESPECIALLY if, like, say, Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs, it lends itself so well to becoming an audience chant) which turns out to be a great idea, because I have a literal ringside view of more crowdsurfing than I’ve seen in many a year.And speaking of “ringside”, following a couple of minutes that could almost be Swans, singlet and shorts-clad frontman Matthew Baty introduces the band like he’s bringing on a pro-wrestler and then all hell breaks loose. From this distance it’s hard not to think of Trevor Phillips while watching Baty (the psychotic meth-head from Grand Theft Auto V, not the politician), while one of the guitarists has every single Angus Young move down pat.
This is my first time seeing Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs, though I’ve wanted to for a long-ass time, and believe me they do not disappoint. An hour of total controlled chaos, bringing to mind nothing so much as Oxbow, although again, Melvins have a lot to answer for. Like every good band, though, Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs make something new and interesting from what’s gone before, and what they make of it here is absolutely fucking colossal. And finally it’s time for the mighty Green Lung to take the stage, with Tom Templar at first alone singing “The Harrowing” before the band join him for “Old Gods”, and then it’s ninety minutes of “old English black magic forest dwellin’ mushroom eatin’ goat botherin’ devil worshippin’ heavy fuckin’ metal”, as he puts it.Last time I saw them was on the 2023 tour, and their blend of Sabbath, Iron Maiden and all the best currents of metal was majestic then. Tonight they’re fucking astonishing, acting like they’re already playing stadiums and convincing you that they are. Although I’m kinda glad they’re not. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not into that gatekeeping “artists I like should remain obscure and suffer” shit, it’s just that watching a band in a stadium is a) way less fun and b) unaffordable. But they’ve got the stadium stage act down.
Accompanied as always by their Dorset Ooser, they’ve even got their own answer to Iron Maiden’s Eddie in the shape of The Manotaur, whose head falls off a couple of times. And nobody throws a rock star tantrum; Templar just replaces it to cheers each time, actually making the whole thing even better. And it’s a cracking set too, including a first live outing for new single “Evil In This House” very early on and drawing on all three albums. “Hunters In The Sky” was a highlight for me, and “Song Of The Stones” is enhanced live with vocal harmonies and a beautiful lightshow. And they finish with “Let The Devil In”, for which they are joined by original bassist Andrew Cave and a reminder that the band’s origins lie in Desertfest itself (Desertfest 2016, to be precise, making this a significant anniversary).There’s a certain irony to the fact that while today’s shenanigans have been occurring, a few miles down the road a bunch of flag-shaggers have been marching to proclaim their patriotism and Christianity. While here at Desertfest we’ve had metal rooted both in English tradition AND Christianity, with nary a whiff of fascism to be found.
It’s fair to say day two was fucking massive. What a line-up that was. Truly stunning.
Sunday 17 May 2026
Day three of Desertfest begins (for me at least… it took quite a while to leave the house after the first two days of Desertfest) back at The Underworld.
The Underworld’s had a strong run this year, which continues with Red-Eyed Cult, a trio from Norfolk who deal in a particularly dirty brand of sludgy stoner doom, which seems a perfect way to set the mood for the day. As is obviously often the case at Desertfest, there are echoes of Electric Wizard to be heard, but my overall impression is one of primitive neanderthal stoner rock, which is pretty cool. It’s kind of like if Sleep were actually called Sleep Fitfully And Wake Up Screaming. Which is certainly an exhilarating way to shake off a hangover, as well as sounding fucking great. Good shit.
The Grey remain totally instrumental until the end (slightly more minimalist than intended during some thankfully brief technical issues towards the start), when we get an impassioned plea for openness in the face of all the horrors life has to offer and the importance of not bottling up your feelings.
They kick into their last number, a massive sprawling piece that includes vocals so good you find yourself asking why they didn’t do that before… and then coming to the inescapable conclusion that it would have been far less powerful that way, and the very structure of the band is part of the same dynamic that makes the music so awesome. A real one-two punch at The Underworld that sets me up for the walk to The Roundhouse.
They’re aptly named. Earth always give me the mental image of a planet revolving in space, while Earthless feel like they’ve left orbit and are unconstrained by its gravity well. Isaiah Mitchell’s guitar spirals off into the void without ever actually being consumed by it, in an endless stream of sound. It’s the very definition of space rock — think Acid Mothers Temple with more of a metal edge, and like AMT (or sometimes Swans) it feels like they’re not so much playing tracks as just tuning into a frequency which has been playing this music constantly since the dawn of time and which will continue to do so long after the Sun’s burned out.
My ears may be protected but the damage they’re inflicting on my mind is beautiful. If I was an astronaut I’d play them all the time I was in space, and then switch to Earth for re-entry. Maybe Motörhead for launch. Yeah, I’d probably get chucked out of the airlock for playing music loud all the time, but what a way to go.
That unashamed nerdiness is part of what gives metal its charm, after all. Nobody’s reinventing the wheel here, or even taking it down any particularly neglected roads, but it’s a hell of a ride nonetheless. Just some really good metal guys playing some really good metal, and sometimes that’s all you really need.
I first heard them thanks to a friend who played “The Regulator” at work a lot (he’s down the front somewhere while I’m off to the side making notes) and they consistently live up to that song’s promise. And of course we get that tonight, along with my personal favourite (based on my surface-level knowledge of their œuvre) “Slaughter Beach”. A full ninety minutes of deliriously hard-rockin’ crowdpleasers, and yes, the crowd are pleased as fuck.
An awesome end to a Sunday night (when frontman Neil Fallon tells us not to think about tomorrow, it’s less a pæan to existentialism than an exhortation to drink, mosh and be merry, for tomorrow we go back to fucking work), and an equally awesome end to what may have been one of the best Desertfests so far.
-Words: Justin Farrington-
-Pictures: Dave Pettit-
Desertfest London ‘26 had one hell of an amazing line-up, and among many highlights one of the bands I had most been looking forward to was Blackwater Holylight, from the US west coast, who were headlining The Underworld on the Sunday night.
So saying, I left Justin to cover Clutch at The Roundhouse (see above) and headed back down the road to the subterranean venue. A good crowd had joined me, which was nice to see as I have no idea really how well known they are in the UK. I had only discovered them by chance a few years ago while browsing Bandcamp.
After a quick hello to the crowd from Sunny, the band started into “How Will You Feel”, the first song on the latest album Not Here Not Gone. And bloody lovely it was too. “Lovely?”, I hear you exclaiming into your phones “that’s no way to describe a band at Desertfest! Where’s the crushing doom and monumental riffs? Where’s THE METAL?” Well, wait a minute, Blackwater Holylight do have quite a bit of that, but they’re not your ordinary doom metal band, or even desert rock band for that matter.
Trying to describe them to a friend before the gig I said they’re like heavy dream pop, like Mazzy Star if they had been metal. That unfortunately completely failed as a description, as he had neither heard of dream pop or Mazzy Star. Ho hum. To try and describe them better, I could say they are a shimmery, at times blissful, at times heavy blend of doom and shoegaze, overlayed with Sunny’s incredibly beautiful and opiated voice.
If I had one complaint it was that the performance was too short; an hour was not enough for a band with the amount of great material they have. However, it was a beautiful performance nevertheless and a gorgeous way to end 2026’s incredible festival.
Still thinking of ways to describe them… like the music David Lynch would have made if he’d been into metal; Lynchian metal (if you will…)-Dave Pettit-
