Some days of live music are just … meh. This definitely wasn’t one of them.
REVIEW AND PICS: SARA-LOUISE BOWREY
For one perfectly glorious summer’s day, Preston Park became Brighton’s beating heart, as Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds assembled a line-up that felt like a carefully curated journey through the leftfield corners of music’s hinterland. From post-punk grooves to psychedelic spectacle, Mercury Prize-winning indie to one of rock’s greatest live bands, every set nudged the crowd a little closer to the catharsis waiting fot the as the sun began to set.
London misfits Warmduscher were first out of the blocks and made the enormous stage feel far smaller than it really was. Clive Lewis was all swagger and mischief, immediately abandoning the safety of centre stage to work every inch of the extended runway. Their dirty blend of punk, funk and dance grooves proved the perfect wake-up call, shaking early arrivals from picnic mode into something far looser, and much groovier. Loose without being sloppy, chaotic without ever losing control, they set the tone for a day where standing still simply wasn’t on the menu.
Cate Le Bon took things in an entirely different direction. Where Warmduscher dealt in sweat and movement, Le Bon built atmosphere with an injection of hypnotic precision. Angular guitar lines and off-kilter arrangements floated effortlessly across Preston Park, rewarding those willing to surrender to her strange, artful world. Every note was meticulously placed, her understated charisma proved to the uninitiated that commanding a festival crowd goes way beyond simple volume.
Fresh from their rapid rise, English Teacher arrived looking every bit like a band who have grown from PE shorts into full major festival stage long trousers. Lily Fontaine’s conversational delivery and sharp observations translate beautifully outdoors, while the band shifted effortlessly between moments of fragile introspection and explosive indie rock. Their set was full of effortless confidence; never showy, never forced, simply a band completely assured in their own identity. If there was any doubt that they’re becoming one of Britain’s defining guitar bands, this did little to support that viewpoint.
Then came The Flaming Lips, who approached the evening to create a headline spectacle squeezed into an hour.
Wayne Coyne remains one of live music’s great entertainers. Confetti cannons explode, giant inflatables bounce across the crowd, kaleidoscopic visuals engulfe the giant screens and Coyne himself never stops smiling, dancing or encouraging thousands to join the celebration. Beneath all the glorious absurdity sat genuine emotion too, with poignant reflections on recent personal loss adding unexpected depth before Do You Realize?? united the park in one enormous singalong. Equal parts psychedelic circus and life-affirming celebration, it was impossible not to be swept along.
By the time darkness began to seep over Preston Park, anticipation had reached fever pitch.
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds didn’t so much take the stage as seize it by the lapels and shake its teeth out.
Launching straight into Get Ready For Love, Cave exploded with astonishing if predictable energy, prowling every inch of the vast platform before hurling himself towards the front rows. At 68, he still performs with the urgency of a fledgling teen wannabe. Every outstretched hand was met. Every lyric delivered with conviction. Every movement demanded our fervid attention.
Behind him, The Bad Seeds remain one of the finest live bands on the planet.
Warren Ellis is the group’s wild heartbeat, conjuring moments of complete sonic chaos before steering everything back towards beauty. His chemistry with Cave has evolved into something almost telepathic; glances become cues, improvisations become towering crescendos and every song feels alive rather than simply reproduced.
The set moved seamlessly across four decades without us enduring a history lesson. Wild God material stood shoulder to shoulder with towering classics, while The Mercy Seat, Red Right Hand and the immense Jubilee Street reminded everyone why these songs have only grown more powerful with age.
Then Preston Park collectively forgot how to breathe.
Kylie Minogue’s appearance for Where The Wild Roses Grow wasn’t just a surprise guest spot; it was one of those genuine “were you there?” festival moments. Their voices slipped effortlessly back into the song’s haunting narrative, thirty years disappearing in an instant as fifty thousand people watched in near silence before erupting into applause.
But even that wasn’t the night’s defining image.
That belonged to Cave himself.
Smiling more than many expected, joking with Ellis, embracing fans and repeatedly disappearing into the front rows, he turned what could have been a retrospective hometown return into something wonderfully alive. Brighton has shaped his life and music in countless ways, but this never felt weighed down by history. Instead it celebrated resilience, connection and the extraordinary power of live performance.
As Into My Arms brought the evening to its close, fifty thousand voices carried the final chorus into the warm Sussex night.
No fireworks and no gimmicks.
Just one of the greatest songwriters of his generation standing in front of his adopted city, surrounded by one of the best bands in the world, reminding everyone why live music still matters.
Days like this don’t come around often, however, when they do, you remember exactly where you were on the day.
