(Our Denver-based writer Gonzo went to Roadburn 2025 in April. Here’s his extensive report on the experience.)
For almost as long as I can recall, I’ve wanted to make the pilgrimage to Roadburn. The 4-day affair in Tilburg, Netherlands, has been one of the most consistently raved-about experiences in heavy music on the planet for the better part of two decades, and I’d been dead-set on getting my ass there for at least half that time.
As it turns out, 2025 would be the year I’d finally get to see if Roadburn lives up to the hype.
The short answer?
Yes. Fuck yes. And then some.
It’s true what they say about this festival: It really is the happiest place on Earth.
Of all the multi-day gatherings of music I’ve been to — many of which vary between “logistical nightmare” and “incoherent shitshow” — Roadburn is simply the most well-organized, supportive, and inclusive environment I’ve ever seen. It’s among the few that actually bring their mission statement to life. In this case, it’s “Redefining heaviness.” There really is no better slogan for it.
Because of the sheer volume of this fest, and the fact that I’m one guy with a finite amount of attention and stamina, (as well as working on multiple writing projects in my demanding day job), think of this writeup as a flyover of sorts. Consider it a “highlights” piece, for all intents and purposes.
Wednesday, April 16
My experience actually began with The Spark, the festival’s annual pregame show, one night before the actual festivities would start. True to its aesthetic, three bands with wildly different sounds were featured on the bill: locals Temple Fang and Rattenbrucht, followed by Louisiana swamp-sludge outfit Thou. Even before anyone played a single note, though, something happened that immediately gave me a sense of what I was about to wade into over the next four days.
Inside the venue’s foyer was an art exhibit of sorts. It featured all kinds of relics from Roadburns past, but the highlight was a huge whiteboard that had a message to all the fans and supporters written on it. Next to it, a Sharpie. People could write notes and sign the board as they pleased, and the first thing I saw someone write on it was “This place is magic.”
More on that later.
As we entered the 013 venue for what would be the first of many, many times over the course of the week, Temple Fang was already regaling the packed house with their brand of fuzzy, psyched-out stoner metal. The first thing I noticed, though, was how utterly fucking perfect the acoustics were. I’d later find out, thanks to a friend, that this very venue was purpose-built for heavy music, which is part of the reason the place is so sought after for bands of this ilk. Every note, every chord, every stroke of the snare was the most perfectly balanced and harmonious mix I’d ever heard. Not even my favorite venues in the US came close. After five minutes, this place was already raising the bar for where my expectations were.
Rattenbrucht was next, and their driving death ‘n’ roll-meets-black metal aesthetic was an interesting shift. I’d never heard of the band before then, but they’d be one of many discoveries I’d soon be making.
There was a buzz in the air before Thou took the stage. They’re no strangers to this place. Their propensity to play “secret sets” all over the town is well-known in Tilburg, and tonight, the crowd greeted them the same way you’d greet an old friend after a long time apart.
Even still, the band wasn’t one for formalities. They wasted no time ripping into their set, highlighted by “The Changeling Prince” from 2018’s Magus. Somehow, I’d never seen Thou play before, and this set gave me instant FOMO. Their thick, malicious sound sucks every last particle of oxygen out of the room. It was simply impossible to look away from how breathtakingly heavy and loud the entire set was, and it was over far too soon.
I went to bed at the festival campsite later that night feeling like a kid on Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, I felt, would be incredible.
Thursday, April 17
Still high from the buzz of yesterday, I woke up realizing once again that the actual fucking festival hadn’t even started yet. Surreal, yet here we were, with everything to look forward to, even after the searing intensity of Thou was still leaving me brushing the ash off my shoulders.
With no other act scheduled on any time slot, San Francisco experimental outfit Xiu Xiu was slated to kick off the festival today at 2 pm. Like many of the bands on this lineup, I knew nothing about them, save for a few songs I’d queued up on the festival’s Spotify playlist. I preferred it that way.
As soon as Xiu Xiu started playing at the Terminal, it was clear to me that artistic expression would be taking center stage in Tilburg this weekend. Trying to describe this band’s sound is all but impossible, but their stage presence is nothing less than commanding. I learned later that they’ve been writing and performing music for two decades and released 17 albums. Their set captivated the crowd, and with all eyes on them for the time being, it was a hell of a unique way to kick things off.
I didn’t want to miss any of Austin’s Glassing, who’d soon be the first act to play the Engine Room stage – conveniently located on the opposite side of the Terminal. The band’s searing brand of paint-peeling post-metal captured every bit of how it sounds throughout their impressive catalog, with “Defacer” being the highlight. This was a hell of a good way to see this band for the first time.
As great as Glassing was, there was no way in hell I was going to miss any of Oranssi Pazuzu playing their ’24 masterpiece Muuntautuja in its entirety. I’ll say this often throughout this (fairly rushed) piece, but there’s much to love about Roadburn, and the fact that all the venues are within an easy walk of each other is at the top of that list. We had no trouble getting front and center of the main stage inside 013 well before the vaunted Finns wordlessly began their performance.
If you’ve never seen Oranssi live, it’s more of a spiritual experience than anything else. It’s the icing on the cake that Muuntautuja is a monstrous album, and a perfect fit for a festival set. Throughout the performance, the band reminded us why the album translates to “Shapeshifter” – changing its music from industrial warfare to organic hypnosis with zero warning. It was only towards the end of the set that I realized the crowd was at capacity, and there was a line that probably extended out the back door to get in.
With the newly acquired knowledge that leaving this venue would be a terrible miscalculation for catching the first Kylesa show in 12 years, we wisely opted to stay put. Sadly, this meant missing out on Bunuel’s set, but tough decisions would need to be made. This would be the first of many.
Kylesa hit the stage like they’d never been gone. The boundless energy of the seminal sludge outfit radiated through the venue’s perfect acoustics. Judging by how warm of a reception they got, we can only hope Kylesa is back for good this time.
If there was any hope of catching Faetooth back at the Terminal, it meant leaving Kylesa with a few songs to go. I’m no expert, but it felt like this was the biggest show the ladies in the LA doom trio had ever played, and they were up to the task.
I honestly had no idea what to expect from a collab set with The Body and Dis Fig, but I had a strong feeling that it would be some kind of strange discordant audial nightmare. I wasn’t wrong.
After a brief technical difficulty, the terrifying wall of noise commenced. It was a hell of a sight to behold; an immediate salvo on every perceptible sense the human brain was capable of perceiving. I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but I didn’t need to.
Meanwhile, my stomach was reminding me that I was indeed human, and music was only a distraction from actual sustenance. Dinner was becoming a priority, and that was one decision that was a little less difficult than choosing which set to watch.
We finished dinner and figured out our next move. The night was already reaching an end, and after scouring the remaining bands on the bill, the choice was obvious: My fellow Denver locals in Black Curse.
Featuring Jonathan Campos from Primitive Man and Zach Coleman from Khemmis, it felt kind of surreal to watch dudes who probably live minutes from me in Denver play a small stage at a festival on the other side of the world. Black Curse marauded their way through a set rife with ferocious death metal, with a sound that’s both discordant and uncompromising.
Concrete Winds would close us out tonight, and putting a band this intense as the day one closer had to have been some kind of cosmic joke. The spike-laden trio came out swinging; their grind-infused brand of spastic death metal was nothing short of dizzying. Wild song structures and frenetic fretwork dominated the set, and there was simply no way the exhausted crowd could’ve kept up.
Friday, April 18
After getting more sleep than I ever thought I would at a festival campsite, I woke up ready for another marathon of a day. This is where I should also mention that having a kickass coffee stand at the campsite was also appreciated beyond measure.
With a fully caffeinated brain, we set off for the Engine Room first. Throwing Bricks and Ontaard, two Dutch post-metal/hardcore acts would be performing a Roadburn-commissioned set of Something to Lose, their collaborative album.
My first reaction on seeing this performance was pure awe. How these bands managed to cram upwards of 10 people on stage at once — oftentimes featuring two drummers, multiple guitarists, keyboards, and vocalists — could’ve easily been a huge goddamned mess, but it all was extremely well-orchestrated. Captivating, even. The endless transitions from ambient interludes to soul-crushing heaviness were incredible; so much so that I wondered how in the world any other act could top this today.
We’d soon be finding out.
After emerging from the depths of the Engine Room, it was time to catch the Italian maestros in Messa play their new album The Spin in its entirety. Just like Oranssi Pazuzu did yesterday on this same stage with their newest album, Messa showed Roadburn an impeccable performance. I’d been lucky enough to catch their goth-metal goodness at Northwest Terror Fest last year, but this set was on a whole different level. The Spin is a gloriously composed record that practically begs to be played all the way through. Vocalist Sarah Bianchin is a fantastic, charismatic frontwoman with incredible range. Many of the songs were pretty personal to her, and it reminded me how safe all the artists feel at this festival to express themselves without any restraint. It truly does bring out the best in every performance.
It’d be time for something decisively different next: Amenra’s Colin van Eeckhout and his hurdy-gurdy would be treating us to a rare set of his solo project, CHVE. He even lit an actual campfire before starting, creating the kind of ambience you’d only find at this festival. The music was dark, slow, meditative, and served as a nice change of pace from the rest of the day. With the songs being 20+ minutes, though, I felt like one was enough to get the experience.
Back to the main stage we went, and I plopped back into our same front-and-center spot. I wanted to get a clear view of envy next. It was a good thing I did.
The music from this seminal Japanese band was transcendent. This set was them performing songs from their albums Modern Era and Eunoia, both of which sound fantastic on record. On a stage, though, the emotional weight of these songs was world-shaking. I was simply in love with this band from the moment they started playing. Normally, three guitarists in a band like this is overkill, if you ask me, but like so many other works of art from their beautiful country, it worked perfectly. It was like being punched in the heart for 60 minutes straight, and my only regret was not catching their set on this very stage yesterday.
There was a hell of a lot of overlap in sets we wanted to see after this, so we ended up bouncing around the infectious electronica of Zombie Zombie and MAQUINA next — both of which were as heavy as they were danceable — and the in-your-face assault of Human Impact, which featured former members of Cop Shoot Cop.
I even squeezed in time to see some of Cave In play their landmark Jupiter album, but for some reason, it wasn’t quite hitting the way I’d hoped. The purist in me wonders why they didn’t play Until Your Heart Stops instead.
After dinner, our phones lit up like a metal bat-signal with news of Chat Pile playing a secret set at the Skate Hall stage, an area we had yet to explore so far. Getting in line relatively early for this one paid off, as we were basically front and center for the first of the Oklahoma noise rock nutjobs’ two sets of the weekend. (They’d be closing out the day tomorrow, and we’ll get to that.)
Walking into the Skate Hall felt like going back in time to a DIY venue in the ’90s. I was already transfixed by the tagged-up, flyer-laden halls of the venue before I even saw the stage. In other words, this was a perfect fucking place for a Chat Pile show.
Frontman Raygun Busch was in his usual rare form, dishing out facts about skate-themed movies that nobody asked for, but everyone needed. “Gleaming the Cube,” he said to everyone. “Remember that one? Oh yeah, oh yeah….” he said in a Randy Savage-esque rasp.
The song selection tonight consisted of deeper cuts than they’d be featuring tomorrow night, and Busch himself even said they’d try to not repeat any of them. It was a bold task, but the twisted, unhinged fury of “Tape” was worth hearing twice. This was Chat Pile’s world now, and we were content to be along for the ride.
Closing us out tonight would Arizona’s one-man industrial act Choke Chain, and if I hadn’t been too exhausted to dance, I would’ve enjoyed it more. Either way, industrial shows can often be dull as shit or incredible, and his energy and mix were enough to put him firmly in the latter category.
The day was over, and I’d already decided it was one of the best, most engaging, and just goddamn fun festival days I’d ever lived. I’m not sure how Roadburn does it, but I thought of what that guy wrote on the board on Wednesday night: This place truly is magic.
Saturday, April 19
Day 3 of any fest is where I start to feel it – the lower back pain, the fatigue, the ringing ears – but I was having none of it. And even if I was worse for wear, it wouldn’t have stopped me from venturing back out into the Engine Room to watch the Norwegian trio Witch Club Satan perform their sonic ritual.
These ladies didn’t come to fuck around. Ferociously heavy, unapologetically pagan, and very theatrical, they ripped through a set of black metal that went straight for the jugular. They had some unfortunate technical difficulties with their bass, but they navigated them exceptionally well – they even got a “from the river to the sea” chant going, to which the crowd responded with the kind of enthusiasm that matched the performance.
Their northerly neighbors in Dodheimsgard were about to start playing next door, and like so many others throughout the weekend, they’d be playing their latest effort all the way through. And also like so many others, the set was packed with musicians; I wasn’t sure if this was the usual lineup or guest musicians were featured. It’s not like I’ve had the chance to see them before.
The album Black Medium Current was a sonic journey like no other. It’s the kind of record that needs to be heard all the way though to understand its weight, and these Norse demigods delivered the goods. My favorite track is “It Does Not Follow,” which ended up being one of the top songs I’d hear all weekend. They’re not the kind of band that plays very much anymore, and I’ve considered myself incredibly lucky to have witnessed them on a stage – especially one of this caliber.
Our plans to see Gillian Carter backfired when our phones lit up with another secret set announcement: the electro duo of Pharaoh Overlord would be hitting the Skate Park next, and I couldn’t resist. I was hoping they’d bring up Aaron Turner for guest vocals, as he’s featured prominently in most of their last album, and also happened to be conveniently hanging out somewhere before his Sumac set with Moor Mother across the street.
Sadly, no Aaron sighting, but his trademark roar was sampled on the final track of the set. Since we got in the queue so early, all three of us in my little group were right up front, and the moment was even captured brilliantly by a festival photographer in an Instagram post from that day. We’d be headed to that very performance next.
Sumac is one of the most crushingly heavy bands in metal right now, and pairing that sound with the beautiful and poignant dark poetry of Moor Mother was something that only could happen at Roadburn. The set was extremely powerful, full of social commentary and anti-capitalist rhetoric. Mother’s spoken word vocals were filtered through a voice distortion box that complemented Turner’s guitars, which were down-tuned to the ninth level of Hell as usual.
This decision meant we’d be missing Uniform rip their way through American Standard, but at this point, energy needed to be conserved. I popped out to hear some of Coilguns blast their way into the Engine Room, but I didn’t stay long. OXN, a side project of members of Lankum, would be on the main stage soon, and it felt like the kind of thing I should watch.
Hypnotic, folky, and slow, this band had only a few shows under their belts before this one. You’d never know it, though. Their cohesion and musicianship would’ve made you think otherwise. For as great as it was, though, the meditative nature of the music wasn’t the vibe I was looking for.
Jakarta’s Denisa would help with that. Her doomy shoegaze-laced rock was a special treat on the Hall of Fame stage. This one felt like her big break, and she and her bandmates were all smiles through the set. I wondered what it felt like to fly from Jakarta to play a set like this. Was this the first time they’d ever played Europe? Maybe.
I pondered that as I scampered off to the Engine Room again, this time to watch the digital hardcore experimenters in Doodseskader do what they do. One part ex-Amenra (Tim De Gieter) and one reformed hardcore kid (Sigfried Burroughs), I’d discovered these guys earlier in the year after our own Andy Synn wrote about their album Year Two in his 2024 best-of list. They have a sound like no other: A bit of Amenra, a bit of Death Grips, and a dash of call-and-response hardcore. It’s all over the place, but it just works. The song “Bone Pipe” won over the crowd, and I noticed a hell of a lot of their shirts in the crowd after that set. I hope the metal scene takes note.
We decided our final set for the night would Chat Pile’s headliner at the main stage. Quality was replacing quality on a limited amount of energy, and I was glad we did. It’s worth mentioning now that the people at this festival are some of the most genuinely warm, friendly, and welcoming I’ve ever met. I was talking to a Tilburg local before the set, and after he asked where I was from, he responded with “do you want a work visa?” and a comforting pat on the back. He was only half-joking.
Being up front with some of my single-serving Dutch friends, Chat Pile came up and electrified this place. They’d played on the same stage two years prior, but with the release of their mind-fuckingly great Cool World last year, they took it up a notch. Or so I’m told.
True to form, their setlist was almost completely separate from what they’d played the previous night at the Skate Hall. I loved that they’d put so much thought into this. The results were palpable, and the singalong choruses from the crowd were deafening – namely on “Why.” If you’ve heard the song, it’s universally relevant.
There really was no other way to close out this night than this. Before I forget, my favorite moment from this was arguably not even a song.
“I was in a cab on the way over here,” said vocalist Busch, “and the driver kept saying, ‘Tilburg is the ugliest city in the Netherlands, why are you here?’ And I thought, ‘brother, your mind could not even comprehend Oklahoma City.’”
Sunday, April 20
On this magical day of 4/20, and because my body was starting to feel the 20+ miles I’d walked since Thursday, starting the day with an appropriate commemoration was in order. It’s never a bad choice, especially paired with weapons-grade espresso. Even more so when you’re in the Netherlands.
This would be the final day of Roadburn. Ordinarily, I’d secretly be happy to get through the end of a festival – like some weird merit badge of survival I award to myself – but I was feeling strangely sad that it’d all be coming to an end tonight.
All this being said, my energy reserves were running on fumes. I expected this. But I wasn’t about to let this stop me. Not now.
I had every intention of catching Dutch post-everything quintet Vuur & Zidje at 2, but I fell short. Our day would start with the harsh jarring noise of ENDON soon after that.
There are probably a litany of adjectives you could use to describe an experimental noise set. My ragged brain couldn’t think of any, and whatever this band was going through emotionally, I’m just glad they had an outlet for it. Otherwise, this was not for me.
We decided to trek over to the main stage, possibly for the last time this year. There was some infamously cool fusing of flamenco and metal going on there, known as Frente Abierto. And when the hell would anyone get a chance to see this again?
I knew close to nothing about the who and the what during this set, but the fusing of traditional Spanish flamenco music and doom metal evoked one of those “this is why we’re here” moments. Simultaneously beautiful and haunting, this marriage of styles was a sight to behold.
Another secret set was announced, this time from local hardcore act Oust. By the time we made it to the skate hall, the band’s vocalist was running up the ramps while shouting antifascist lyrics in the face of the photo crew. I was instantly in love. The Dutch hardcore scene, from what I’d been able to see of it, is fucking thriving. The fact that the Netherlands is probably the most peaceful and left-leaning country I’d been to in decades is no coincidence.
We bid farewell to Oust and the skate hall. No amount of caffeine and sustenance was giving me any more energy at this point, and I knew the end was in sight. Ideally, I’d have loved to catch Pothamus and Violent Magic Orchestra later on, but I knew the chances of that were decreasing by the minute.
Sitting down sounded nice, so we retreated back to the main stage to see Aaron Turner and Sumac play through The Healer. It’s been fun to watch Turner’s ascent from a local hardcore provocateur into a full-on long-haired fucking rock star. Sumac seems to be Turner’s final form. The trio is denser than Puget Sound fog, heavier than a beached whale, and anything but predictable. Music this slow couldn’t possibly be this technical in anyone else’s hands. This was Sumac at their absolute best.
With The Healer now in our rearview, it was time to make the shittiest decision of the weekend. This would be the last set of the weekend for us. Leaving the festival grounds at Tilburg and trudging back to the campsite filled me with an unexpectedly despondent feeling. It was like saying goodbye to a friend I’d just met, wanted to get to know better, and forced to put that relationship on hold for another year.
There’s just so much more I want to discover about this festival. It hits different. This is undoubtedly more than just a place where people watch some bands play for four days. It’s a community that continuously grows into a better version of itself. Even after 25 years, the founders, led by Walter Hoeijmakers, make sure Roadburn isn’t just a transactional relationship. Your band just doesn’t show up, play a set, and leave. Instead, Walter and co. make sure to create something where nobody else would look.
And that, my friends, is the very basis of art.
Until next year, Roadburn. I’ll be coming back until I can’t.