INTRODUCTION – THE PILGRIMAGE FROM THE EDGE OF THE EARTH
There’s something deeply irrational, borderline spiritual, about flying 17,000 kilometers from Australia to Clisson, France just to be blasted in the face with pyro, sweat, and distortion. This was my third Hellfest, and by now, I knew what to expect: heatstroke, tinnitus, incredible bands, and a sense of belonging I’d never find at a barbecue back home.
There are many ways to describe Hellfest: the loudest therapy session on Earth, a sunburned religious experience, or the only place where it’s socially acceptable to scream until your lungs collapse while dressed as a goat. For me, it’s all of the above, to stand in a field crammed with like-minded maniacs and let heavy music burn the fatigue right out of my bones.
The trip itself is epic: a 30-hour endurance test of airplane seats, terrible layover sandwiches, and watching “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy to pass the time (extended edition, obviously). You arrive in France tired, dehydrated, and vibrating with anticipation.
But Clisson makes it worth it. The town goes all-in — metal flags hang from balconies, the supermarkets stock up on beer like they’re preparing for a Viking invasion, and the train ride from Nantes to the festival grounds is filled with the scent of unwashed denim and giddy anxiety. People chat in French, German, English, Spanish, and riffs.
No matter your language, everyone speaks metal here.
Camping at Hellfest is not for the faint-hearted. The tent village looks like a Mad Max refugee camp crossed with an outdoor rave. You don’t sleep so much as pass out from exhaustion, then wake up in a pool of your own sweat and beer.
DAY 1 – TEEN MORTGAGE TO KORN: DUST, SUN & THE FIRST RIFFS OF MADNESS
Thursday. Day 1. . The air is already baking by 8 a.m., and the ground feels like hot metal under your tent. You know its going to be a hot one for sure when the tar is readying to bubble. I hadn’t had breakfast, but I had sunscreen, warm water, and a heart full of reckless optimism. With camera bag packed let the games begin.
First stop, as in my previous 3yrs Hellfest wouldn’t be Hellfest without the guitar wannabees- THE AIR GUITAR OFF in Hell City…
The gates opened with the same energy as Black Friday at a cursed Walmart. Merch tents flooded. People rushed to claim spots on the rail. Some were already shirtless. Some were already sunburnt. Some were shirtless and sunburnt and didn’t care.
Making my way to my Favorite area of Hellfest, ‘Warzone’ my festival is to kick off with Teen Mortgage exploding onto the stage with pure punk energy. They played like they were on fire — and to be honest, at 35°C, they probably were. Their garage rock fury had people bouncing like toddlers on energy drinks. A man in a tutu attempted a front-flip and landed in a puddle of beer and what might have been cheese. No one questioned it. We just screamed harder.
Then we wandered toward the Valley stage for Monkey3, who gave us a much-needed
dose of psychedelic reprieve. Their instrumental jams stretched out like heat mirages — swirling, pulsing, transcendent. If you closed your eyes, you could almost forget you were standing in
the world’s largest outdoor pizza oven. Their music was the sound of drifting through space… on acid… in denim.
Kicking off the Main Stage for Hellfest was a honour placed with Skindred. It’s pretty easy to understand why. No one — and I mean no one — knows how to control a Hellfest crowd like Benji Webbe. The man is a walking, dreadlocked ball of charisma. By song three, half the field had taken their shirts off, spinning them in the air for the legendary Newport Helicopter. Their reggae-metal fusion had the crowd dancing, screaming, and losing their collective minds. People threw inflatable bananas. Someone got hit in the face with a beach ball and didn’t stop dancing. Unity through chaos. Skindred reminded us why we came.
Next on the bill for the day are fellow Aussies: Airbourne. And look — I know I’m biased,
but these guys are absolute maniacs. Joel O’Keeffe chugged a beer, crushed the can on his head, climbed the speaker tower mid-solo, and screamed “HELLFEST, ARE YOU ALIVE?!” like he wasn’t the one bleeding from the forehead. We were. We are. They tore through “Too Much, Too Young, Too Fast”, “Runnin’ Wild”, and more with the subtlety of a chainsaw on fire. The sun was at its peak now — about 39°C — and someone near me fainted but was revived by a spray of water, a slice of ham, and Airbourne’s guitar solo.
The day was hot. Hotter than hell for sure, but it is Hellfest afterall! Shade was the motivator of the day with not a square centimetre left vacant. Hellfestians clambered under trees and stood like statues in front of the massive water spray cannons in any attempt to cool off even if just a little.
Things may have gotten darker, but defiantly not any cooler when Till Lindemann took the stage.
If Rammstein shows are brutalist theater, Till’s solo set is dystopian cabaret. He emerged
in what seemed to be a black trench coat and sunglasses like a post-apocalyptic dictator ready to crush our souls — and we thanked him for it. His industrial baritone rumbled across the main stage, accompanied by haunting visuals: burning pianos, faceless children, and more fire than should legally be allowed. At one point, he serenaded a rubber mannequin. At another, he growled out German poetry with such intensity a girl near me collapsed into tears. It was art. It was horror. It was Hellfest.
As the skies darkened past the late European sunset, time to bring on Korn.
If you’ve never seen 60,000 people collectively lose their minds to the intro of “Blind”, it’s something you never forget. The moment Jonathan Davis yelled “ARE YOU READY?” the field erupted like a volcano. “Freak on a Leash”, “Here to Stay”, “Shoots and Ladders” — they played every classic with the force of a freight train. JD’s bagpipe solo turned the crowd into one giant, convulsing organism. At one point, I saw a guy crying, yelling “THIS IS MY CHILDHOOD!” while hugging a stranger in corpse paint.
Korn closed the day like gods returning to reclaim their throne. As we stumbled back to our camps, ears ringing and shoes full of mud and mystery fluids, someone yelled, “ONLY THREE MORE DAYS!” and got a cheer that shook the fence.
DAY 2 – CASTLE RATS, MONGOL METAL & GOTHIC LEGENDS
Friday morning arrived in a haze of hangovers, sunscreen, and suspiciously warm beer. My boots had fused with the tent floor. The guy in the next campsite was brushing his teeth with rosé. I ate a baguette with instant coffee powder sprinkled on it like cocaine. All was well.
The weather had technically cooled — down to a modest 34°C — which meant we were still sizzling like sausages, just slightly slower than the day before. At one stage I think more people were lined up to refill water bottles than at the Official Merchandise Sanctuary area. Hydration would be the key to survival over the next few days. Of course a few dozen beers will help with the carbs being burnt!
I started the day under the Valley tent, where Castle Rat appeared looking like they’d stepped out of a fever dream or a medieval-themed biker bar. Their doom-laced sludge metal was full of galloping riffs, haunting vocals, and enough stage drama to resurrect Shakespeare.
The lead singer, dressed in what can only be described as armored lingerie, howled like a banshee while waving a torch. During their closing track, “Rat Queen’s March,” two members fake-dueled on stage with foam swords. The crowd LOVED it. Someone passed me a scroll with a handwritten sigil that said “Long live the Rat Throne.” It will remain in my camera bag I think forever.
Next up was The Burning Witches, a riotous garage-rock coven of fuzzy bass lines and snarling vocals.
They attacked the stage like a punk tornado and didn’t stop until they’d shredded every throat in the front row. Their drummer had a mohawk shaped like a lightning bolt, and halfway through the set, he lit his sticks on fire — accidentally setting his cymbal bag ablaze in the process. The crowd howled. No one put it out.
The energy shifted as we made our way back to Mainstage 1 for The Hu — the Mongolian folk metal titans. The crowd packed in tight, silent in anticipation. As their deep, throat-sung chants began to rise, we were swept away. Their instruments — horsehead fiddles, traditional drums, and that epic jaw harp — filled the field with ancient battle cries. I had the pleasure of shooting the whole set for this remarkable band from the Front of House – certainly a high point of my music photography and journalism career.
Every song felt like we were riding into war, and during “Wolf Totem,” 40,000 of us howled like it was the last full moon on Earth. There were tears. There were group hugs. There were men with braided beards openly sobbing into their beer.
The Hu don’t just perform — they cast spells. The whole set felt like a ceremonial rite, half concert, half spiritual awakening.
I needed a drink and possibly a nap…
But The Cult brought no time for rest.
Ian Astbury stalked the stage like a leather-clad prophet, and Billy Duffy wielded his guitar like a weapon of divine intervention. They rolled through “Rain,” “Fire Woman,” and “She Sells Sanctuary” like seasoned warlocks. The sound was massive — not flashy, but mystical.
A woman in front of me dropped to her knees during “Edie (Ciao Baby)” like she’d been hit by a divine beam of ‘80s rock.
Astbury told the crowd to “stay weird and stay loud” — then blessed us with one of the most soulful screams I’ve ever heard. It was spiritual and loud enough to scare pigeons in Nantes.
I headed to grab food (vegan burrito, tasted like grass and glory) before planting myself for one of the most chaotic and beautiful bands in the gothic-punk canon: The Damned.
From the moment Captain Sensible walked onstage wearing a red beret, white gloves,
and Hawaiian shorts, you knew this was going to be a glorious mess. Dave Vanian, still looking like a Victorian vampire, emerged like a gothic preacher of the weird and wonderful.
They ripped through “New Rose”, “Smash It Up”, and a gloriously melodramatic “Eloise”. It was part séance, part punk rave. The pit wasn’t aggressive — it was joyful chaos. A guy in corpse paint handed me a rose he’d painted black with marker. I wept. It smelled like gin and regret.
As their set ended with the crowd chanting “DAMNED! DAMNED! DAMNED!”, the whole of the Warzone glowed with the satisfaction of weirdos fulfilled.
DAY 3 – PIRATE CHOIRS, AUSSIE SWAGGER & THE GODS OF SHRED
By Saturday morning, most of the campsite had begun to resemble a medieval battlefield. Sunburned warriors wandered in search of coffee, sandals were taped together with wristbands, and one guy was wearing a traffic cone like a crown. Spirits were still high, but our bodies were beginning to say things like, “Why are you doing this?”
No matter. Day 3 had one hell of a lineup.
We kicked things off with The Southern River Band, and holy hell — these boys delivered pure, sweat-drenched Aussie rock ‘n’ roll. Cal Kramer strutted out shirtless, chest hair blazing, mullet flapping like a war flag. Their opener, “Chimney,” hit the crowd like a burst of lightning.
This band doesn’t just play — they perform. Cal high-kicked, dropped into the splits mid-solo, and cracked beers with his forehead between verses. The audience was moshing, laughing, and waving Aussie flags in every direction. During “Don’t Look the Other Way”, I swear I saw a French security guard dancing. It was that infectious.
One guy next to me said, “They’re like if AC/DC and Wolfmother had a dirty weekend and this was the result.” He wasn’t wrong.
Afterward, we made a sharp musical turn into the orchestral depths of Visions of Atlantis — the Austrian symphonic metal pirates who took the Main Stage like they were storming 
a fortress. Their co-lead singers, clad in flowing pirate garb, led us through tales of heartbreak, lost voyages, and defiant hope with the drama of a Broadway tragedy set on the high seas.
Their track “Heroes of the Dawn” became an operatic battle cry. The audience, arms raised, sang along like we were a sea of buccaneers ready to loot the merch tents. I saw more eyepatches and plastic swords than at any point during this festival. One guy even brought a rubber octopus and waved it like a flag.
It was cheesy. It was glorious. It was everything you’d hope for from a symphonic pirate metal band.
Then came Myles Kennedy, possibly the only man who could bring both quiet soul and stadium energy to a sun-cooked horde of beer-soaked lunatics.
Dressed in black, sunglasses gleaming, Kennedy stepped onstage and silenced the entire field with the first note of “Love Can Only Heal.” His voice — pure, soaring, almost supernatural — carried across Clisson like a balm for our battle-weary souls.
“Year of the Tiger” had a man in front of me quietly weeping while another lifted a lighter skyward, despite it being midday. When Myles shifted into heavier Alter Bridge territory, the crowd swelled in response, fists raised in gratitude.
For that hour, he wasn’t just a singer — he was a healer.
And then the mood changed.
Stick to Your Guns took the stage and absolutely detonated it.
The hardcore legends from California wasted no time. With “Nobody” they ignited the pit like a molotov cocktail. Circle pits opened, T-shirts were torn off, someone crowd-surfed holding a baguette like it was a weapon. Their messages — about standing strong, about defiance, about not giving in — hit even harder than their breakdowns.
At one point, vocalist Jesse Barnett shouted, “You are not alone!” and 30,000 people screamed back like it was life or death. These guys don’t just play — they believe in what they’re doing, and they made us believe too.
I crawled out of that pit a different person. Possibly shorter.
We ended the night under stars and lasers with what can only be described as shred-god communion: the arrival of the SatchVai Band.
Joe Satriani. Steve Vai. On the same stage.
What followed wasn’t a gig — it was a guitar clinic for the ages. They traded solos like wizards battling with lightning bolts, their fingers blurring into supernatural motion. “Surfing with the Alien” sounded like the soundtrack to interdimensional travel, while Vai’s “For the Love of God” had people openly praying.
I saw a man scream, “I CAN FEEL THE NOTES IN MY SPINE!” and collapse with joy.
The final solo lasted nearly eight minutes. When they hit the last note, a moment of silence passed over the field. Then, thunderous applause. Tears. Possibly orgasms.
As I stumbled back to my tent, a man walked past whispering, “That was the sound of the musical Gods playing guitars in the universe.”
I didn’t disagree.
DAY 4 – LORNA SHORE, CROWD-SURFING EPIPHANIES & THE MELTDOWN
By Day 4, Hellfest had claimed its toll. I’d lost my sunglasses, my dignity, half a toenail, and at least two litres of sweat per day. My face and arms burnt red from the sun. My boots were held together by a prayer. But none of that mattered — because this was the final stretch, the glorious descent into sonic Armageddon.
And it was hot. Not “bring a fan” hot. Not “sweaty mosh pit” hot. We’re talking 43°C, or as I now call it: “Apocalypse Mode.” Tents were melting. Socks were crisping. I saw a guy pour a Slurpee on his own head and start crying. Water became currency. Shade became legend.
Yet, we persisted.
The Warzone stage exploded to life as Pain of Truth opened my day. Their brutal New York hardcore set felt less like music and more like being dropkicked in the sternum by a bulldozer. They ripped through “Actin’ Up” like they were declaring war. The pit turned into a Mad Max roller derby. People were windmilling like their lives depended on it. Someone launched a camping chair into the circle. No one flinched.
A dude dressed as Jesus held up a “REPENT” sign that had “FOR THE BREAKDOWNS” scribbled underneath. Poetic. (there is a pic of this)
After that emotional bludgeoning, I wandered like sun-drunk zombie to prep for Lorna Shore, arguably the most anticipated set of the weekend.
Let me set the scene: The sun is directly above, sizzling skin and turning the dust into spicy soup. The crowd is massive, shirtless, oiled, painted, screaming. There’s a haze of smoke and body odor hanging over the pit. And out walks Will Ramos — a human banshee in tight black jeans and an expression of pure evil.
And just as the band launched into “Sun//Eater”, it happened.
JASMINE’S MOMENT…
Jasmine joined me from Australia at Hellfest to hone her music photography and journalism skills. Nineteen years old, tiny in stature but with a heart of a lion, freshly coloured green hair and Hellfest is her first ever metal festival. She had been thinking of crowd surfing for days and it was ‘time’.
Jasmine’s eyes widened. She hesitated. Her green hair stood on end as I gave those close to us the nod that she wanted to go ‘up’ for her first time.
Then, as the opening growl of “To the Hellfire” shattered the crowd, like magic, dozens of hands lifted her up — she floated above the crowd, arms out, wind in her face, mouth open in a scream. She soared like a metal phoenix, blazing through the inferno.
People were cheering her on, screaming, laughing. One guy blew her a kiss mid-solo. Security at the rail caught her perfectly, gave her a high five, and she immediately bolted back into the pit, glowing with adrenaline.
She returned and collapsed in joyful tears. “I did it,” she gasped. “I finally f***ing did it.” Then off she went again.
We all felt it — we’d just witnessed someone fall in love with this chaotic, beautiful scene for life.
A Day to Remember took us home that evening with one of the most cathartic, crowd-unifying performances of the entire weekend. They played like it was the end of the world, and honestly, it felt like it might be.
From the singalong anthem “All I Want” to the mosh-core blitz of “2nd Sucks”, they had us right in their sweaty palms. When “If It Means a Lot to You” hit, 60,000 voices echoed through the dusk, and strangers hugged, cried, screamed, and shared water bottles like sacramental wine.
When they closed with “The Downfall of Us All”, it felt like a ritual. We jumped until our legs gave out. Hellfest Main Stage area became a blur of tears, sweat, confetti, and broken sandals. A guy next to me whispered, “This is church.”
He wasn’t wrong.
….And i witnessed and captured the carnage, the madness and…..THE TRUE HELLFEST…
CAN YOU SEE YOURSELF LOSING YOUR SHIT ???
EPILOGUE – THE AFTERMATH, THE AIRPORT, AND WHY WE KEEP COMING BACK
Monday morning. Hellfest is quiet. It is surreal and sad at the same time. The last echoes of distorted guitars have faded into the ground. Campers limp toward the exits with blank stares and sunburnt limbs. The garbage piles look like modern art. I saw a man attempt to roll up his tent and just… walk away instead. I respected him deeply.
The train back to Paris was a rolling tomb of hangovers and bruised knees. Everyone had that same dazed look: a weird mix of bliss and disbelief. Some dozed off mid-baguette. Others quietly stared at their wristbands, unwilling to cut them off just yet.
On the flight back to Australia, I couldn’t sleep — not just because my legs felt like overcooked spaghetti, but because I was still there in my mind.
Back in the pit, the mosh, in a circle. Watching Jasmine fly. Screaming “ARE YOU READY?” with Korn.
Feeling my spine vibrate from a Vai solo. Crying with strangers during “Wolf Totem.”
Hellfest is more than a festival. It’s a rite of passage. A four-day act of communal insanity. A boiling cauldron of riffs, flames, sweat, and unity. A place where the misfits are the main event.
This was my third time. It won’t be my last…. As i was capturing everybody that warranted a capture…. Lets see if you can find yourself in this gallery….ENJOY.
Oh yeah, did i mention crowd surfers? here a load more….
WILL I SEE YOU IN 2026? WATCH THIS AND I’M SURE I WILL…..
