Dancing in the rain at Primavera Sound

The universe, though unpredictable in every other way, seems to always know when important music festivals are happening and chooses to curse them with disgusting weather. Or it might just be climate change; I’m too young to differentiate. Regardless, the axiom held this weekend at Barcelona’s Primavera Sound music festival, where a thunderstorm threatened to put a damper on one of Europe’s best musical experiences. Nevertheless, we persisted—and it ruled.

Thursday, June 4

After failing to see Wet Leg (free concert does not mean unticketed concert; remember this), I was determined, despite some foreboding clouds, to catch Geese. As we danced to “Taxes,” the sky broke open and Cameron Winter got what the Internet speculated might have been his first shower of 2026. In the rain, the mosh pit became slip-slidey, more a series of Charlie Brown dances than anything particularly hardcore. Next to me, a guy’s hair product streamed down his face in little white rivulets. My poncho was doomed. But, as always, the band was utterly commanding, never skimping on the good stuff. “Cowboy Nudes” was a highlight, as was Winter’s attempt at Spanish. The crowd knew all the words and sang them into the sky together, in a deliciously corny moment I would have shivved someone to experience at age seventeen.

And then, as soon as things started to look up, they threatened to poof away into nothingness. As we stumbled dazedly away from Geese, my Reddit addict friend—a necessity at any festival for logistical reasons—gasped and said the festival had shuttered all the stages. Everyone was cancelled: Massive Attack, Alex G, Doja Cat, Mac DeMarco. Men with little beanies howled into the wind with grief, beating their chests and ululating; it was bedlam. Unwilling to give up, my scrappy group plopped down by the food court and took turns buying each other beers until the rain lightened up and the screens stopped falling off the festival stages, almost killing patrons. And then, after two hours, a miracle, a voice I’d recognize on my deathbed: Father John Misty. We hustled to the stage—which I refuse to name because they were all dedicated to cars and fintech companies—where Josh Tillman was, as always, perfectly LARPing the hottest guy in your high school theatre troupe. I’m not ashamed to say I cried, reader. You hear “Chateau Lobby #4” in the pouring rain and try not to cry. I dare you.

We popped by 2hollis for a bit but left to eat overpriced pizza—try as we might, 2hollis’ level of skinniness is just not attainable for us. After an hour, we were back in business, headed to see Fcukers. And thank God, because it had been sausage city for hours. It felt like the festival had hidden all the good DJs in the back corners of the festival, so we scurried to a nook full of porta-potties to see the duo. They were electric, and the rain makes everyone sexier. Afterwards, we bounced over to Overmono and ¥ØU$UK€ ¥UK1MAT$U, bopping along to their beats until the sleepies finally hit. Collapsing into the cab, we made our plan for tomorrow.

Friday, June 5

All the best artists have gay fanbases. On this, we can all agree. And sure, sometimes this means that a 6’2” man is body-checking you into a chain-link fence to get a better look at Addison Rae’s “Fame Is a Gun” choreo, and you know what? That’s okay. Addison might have been lip-syncing, but that’s also okay, because she is simply a consummate performer. Rae is truly coming into her 2002 Britney Spears own: she crowd-dived, strutted about in a tutu, and was raised into the sky on a floating platform. Her fanbase was obsessed, singing every word; there was a bit of crowd crush, but I suppose it was well-deserved.

In a whiplash-inducing shift, our next stop was The Cure. Robert Smith, looking as though he’s just survived the Addison Rae pit himself, stepped out on stage to raucous applause. This was the first time the band had performed live since 2024, and the energy was tangible. It was a two-and-a-half-hour set full of hits, new and old, all performed with the kind of verve one rarely sees from a band full of septuagenarians. “Love Song,” “Pictures of You,” and “Just Like Heaven” were played impeccably, and a billion dads emerged from the depths of Barcelona to sing along. The band even put on a nine-song encore, a highlight of the festival writ large.

We sprinted over to the last half-hour of fakemink, which was as silly and beep-boopy and full of large hordes of dudes as you’d expect, before checking out Skrillex. Did you know Skrillex is, like, 5’4”? I didn’t. Somehow, though, it makes him more fun to dance to. The performance was all columns of fire shooting into the sky and 2010s dance hits remixed with air horn noises. It was awesome. Everyone should see Skrillex live once in their lives; I’m mandating it. Bonus points if, on the same day, you hear “Boys Don’t Cry” live.

I will admit that, at this point, I was losing steam. I will admit also (please don’t find my address and kill me) that I am not a huge PinkPantheress fan. So it was with some reluctance that I parked myself in the most crowded performance of the night to see P!nk. Remember a few years ago when everyone got on her case about being a bad performer? Honestly, I think we may have spooked her too much—though the songs she did play sounded great, she kept fleeing the stage for minutes at a time and leaving the audience to bop awkwardly to her in-house DJ. Regardless, it was a well-done performance, if perhaps not worth the near-suffocation my group endured while attempting to leave.

Saturday, June 6

Grace Ives, if you’re reading this, know that I tried and I love you. But by Saturday, the 6:15 sets were a big ask for my posse, and no one had packed yet. I made everyone listen to Girlfriend while we got ready, and then, feet hurting, we mustered up the energy to go see Little Simz. Standing at the back of the crowd, squarely defeated by yesterday’s Addison debacle, I saw one of the best performances of the festival. “I know my body isn’t immortal, but I am brave,” she breathed, her flow perfectly smooth. Her stage presence was jubilant; her Spain jersey was customized. It takes a lot to get me to rap in public, but Simz brought it out of me. (Apologies to my concert neighbors.)

And then a whisper began to spread throughout the crowd. Could it be? Is Olivia Rodrigo performing a surprise concert? We rushed across the festival, and this time it was entirely possible that I was the one elbowing people out of the way for a better view. Rodrigo arrived onstage in all her 2014 American Apparel glory as a chorus of Gen Z women screamed like Jesus had risen again. Rodrigo played her two new singles, “drop dead” and “the cure,” as well as old hits like “good 4 u,” “brutal,” and “driver’s license.” The elder gays next to us were extremely confused as to who this person was, but they decided she was pretty good—one of them, who seems to have been an opera singer, even started harmonizing in a Liberace alto. Rodrigo then announced a new song, “what’s wrong with me,” and Robert Smith appeared on stage in a halo of hair. The duet was adorable, and Rodrigo’s sincere love for Smith was palpable. I’d say seeing Rodrigo was my Geese, but Geese was also my Geese. I love music festivals.

Everything ebbed and flowed, and sooner rather than later, my group needed to lie on the ground and eat hot dogs for two hours. In the distance, MARINA pranced around in a wedding dress. It was a hidden blessing that the rain hit when it did: had it occurred today, we might have called it and gone for some jamón.

But we got it together just in time for Gorillaz. The band’s crowd was the biggest I had seen for anyone thus far, spilling out to the bathrooms—which, it must be said, had developed a smell I won’t even begin to attempt to describe here—half an hour before the show even began. Aarab Barghouti, the son of imprisoned Palestinian politician Marwan Barghouti, introduced the band, imploring listeners to aid in his father’s release. (Massive Attack was also supposed to have Barghouti on, before their set was cancelled.) Damon Albarn appeared in a teeny tiny beanie and a string of Palestine flag-covered prayer beads and proceeded to oscillate between the band’s genre-defining old hits and whatever the hell they were doing on this latest album. The visuals were the kind of thing that would change your life if you were on hard drugs. “Feel Good, Inc.,” “Kids with Guns,” “Tranz,” and “Melancholy Hill” went about as crazy as you’d expect. The band did not play “DARE,” which murdered me a little on the inside, but overall, they were phenomenal.

The good thing about being the music writer in your friend group is that you get extra pull in where your friends go during festivals. As such, I was allowed to drag everyone, sleepy as they were, to Kneecap. Last year, the band played at a Barcelona club as a Primavera add-on, but this year they’re on the big stage, and their glee was clear. Palestinian and Lebanese flags flew through the crowd. Old-school ravers commingled with 19-year-old moshers. The band brought out Barghouti again, this time in the middle of their set, right before “Get Your Brits Out.” The way I feel about Ireland is not unlike the way some white people feel about Japan (shoutout my grandma), so I entered a flow state when Móglaí Bap and Mo Chara slipped into Gaelic. “We want our country back!” they crooned into the sky. I’m thrilled the group is finally getting their flowers; they’ve long deserved them.

It was almost time to leave, but one act remained that could not go unseen: Ninajirachi. We’d been doing something like krumping at Kneecap for too long, and everyone was hellbent on seeing “Fuck My Computer” live. We arrived just in time for “iPod Touch,” jumping up and down on blistered feet as the beat dropped. By the time the set ended, everyone was breathing heavily. We looked at each other and realized we were not going to be able to make it to both ecco2k and our flights tomorrow. As we traipsed heavily out of the venue, Little Simz brushed past us in a bright orange raincoat, touching our shoulders on her way to see “Peroxide.” We squealed on our way to the taxi line. It had all been worth it.

Miranda Wollen is a staff writer at Paste and is based in New York City. Follow her @mirandakwollen or email her.

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