Thursday 31st July, Greenview Farm, Pikehall, Derbyshire hosted the 4-day sold-out extravaganza for the 20th time. Learning that this spectacular event was initially, nothing more than ‘overspilled’ house-party which gradually evolved into what you see today. Y Not Festival is a unique blend of indie charm with a smattering of countryside chaos. Pootling around, a little like the intro to Postman Pat on the beautiful rolling hills of the Derbyshire Peak District, I managed to find the site with ease.
A minor hiccup at the entrance regarding photographer/reviewer parking was quickly resolved by the courteous and apologetic staff. It was difficult to feel inconvenienced or annoyed when everyone was so lovely and the surrounding area so calm. Minor issues were ironed out and now, it was time to get into the festival mood.
Facilities – Whilst walking up to the main entrance, I couldn’t help but notice an abundance of lovely ecru teepees, offering a new level of comfort with the ‘Glamping’ site. Luxury tents starting around £600. These came equipped with hot showers, access to pamper tents, and the ever-crucial posh bogs—ideal for groups seeking a more refined festival experience.
Toilets across the site were impressively clean, even by day four. However, the absence of handwashing stations was a noticeable concern. When a good chunk of the food vendors serves meals that you eat with your hands, surely hand hygiene should be a priority? I resorted to carrying around my own handwash which wasn’t ideal when you need your pockets for camera batteries, lens caps and various other bits of technical tatt.
Food vendors though, were a standout feature, reminiscent of Liverpool’s ‘Bold Street’. The variety was inclusive and vibrant, catering to all dietary preferences with flair and flavour. Everything from Greek to Indian, Japanese to a good ole Sunday dinner, there was something to suit every taste. If you have a sweet tooth, my personal favourite was the ‘Crumble Pot’ stand. Specialising in sweet and savoury dishes, I preferred the traditional apple crumble with soft-serve ice cream. I have no shame in admitting this stand became more of a feature during my weekend than it should have been. By Sunday, I was attempting my 5th pot but was devastated when I discovered they’d sold out of the banoffee crumble.
Official Y Not festival Merch stands graced the hillsides where it seemed a healthy number of purchases were being made. A little too warm for hoodies but bucket hats and T’s seemed to do well.
Y Not prides itself on being a family festival and reflects this by offering ‘family camping areas’ where events take place right next to the tents to keep little ‘Y Notters’ busy but are a little less hectic than the regular camping area.
Family entertainment took place in ‘Strawberry Fields’ where you could see stilt walkers, throw shapes at a family rave or just chill out with some Yoga. I was impressed at the level of consideration and planning that must have taken place to keep the average family entertained. Everything from silent discos, fancy dress competitions to paint-powder fights. I wanted to watch the paint fight, but I’d heard what those things can do to your camera equipment so instead, I opted for the Watchtower bar, meandering across field to be entertained by the Oktoberfest Band.
I was wildly unprepared for what I was about to witness. Imagine walking into a brass band fever dream where indie guitar anthems are being blasted out by tubas and trumpets, while the crowd—pints aloft like Viking torches—sways in unison, bellowing out the sacred banger of the night: “Don’t Look Back in Oompah!” I mean, anger.
The audience was a glorious chaos of generations— children and pensioners alike defying gravity and common sense by dancing on tables, stomping like they were auditioning for Riverdance, and belting out ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” like their lives depended on it.
If Mamma Mia! and Oliver! had a musical lovechild raised by Bavarian wolves and fed exclusively on bratwurst and beer, this would definitely be it.
I was so swept up in the Oktoberfest madness, I suddenly realized I had ten minutes to sprint to the Big Gin tent for the headliner. Cue dramatic exit, dodging lederhosen like a musical ninja. No-one wore lederhosen. I’m just making that bit up.
Stages – Flamingo Jack’s cabaret tent was a standout. A fellow photographer decided to check out Clinton Baptiste and didn’t regret his decision. Russell Betts DJ got things back in full flow, followed by musical bingo. The festival’s quirky, alternative side was thriving with themed events and some indie karaoke. A group of Essex folks tried to persuade me to join them in sounding like a cat being dragged under a garage door. I didn’t ‘cave’. No one deserved that at Y Not. It just wasn’t fair. The Quarry is the second-largest stage at the festival and the biggest tented venue. Noticeably the lighting in here was a lot more photographer friendly. Acts Home Counties, Seb Lowe and The Guest List all made an appearance.
Personal favourite Circa Waves smashed it, bringing their signature sound and indie Britpop energy to stage. First seeing CW perform in their home city of Liverpool, raising money for a baby hospice, I was excited to see them again and as expected, they didn’t disappoint. The Allotment is a ‘new music’ hot spot. It seemed to be where young talent is given its pride of place, watered with crowd energy, and left to bloom under the Derbyshire sun which was fitting. My Factor 50 came out of the bag on Saturday. Overall, if you wanted to say “I saw them before they were famous,” in a few years’ time, this is your spot.
Thursday – The festival kicked off with a nostalgic bang as The Wombats returned to Pikehall, having last played in 2018. Their punctual entrance with “Sorry I’m Late” set the tone for a lively and engaging set. Crowd favourites “Let’s Dance to Joy Division” and “Greek Tragedy” were met with enthusiastic chanty singalongs, reaffirming their status as an indie favourite. The atmosphere was warm and excitable. Thursday lineup was punching well above its weight this year with The Wombats, Hard Life, Pixey, and Vistas, all kicking off the party off with gusto.
Friday – If you wandered into the Big Gin stage on Friday night hoping for a quiet evening, Primal Scream had other plans. Gillespie strutted out wearing his trademark scar-face suit complete with crocodile boots.
They kicked off with “Don’t Fight It, Feel It”, which felt less like a song and more like a spiritual demand. The iconic all female backing vocals went down a treat. Loaded had everyone dancing, Gillespie jumping off stage to shake his maracas at the audience. He looked iconic, sounded solid, but for some reason, his facial expression showed someone who seemed to be preoccupied. Forgot to lock the door? Left the oven on maybe? Unsure. That aside, “Country girl” and “Rocks” didn’t affect the crowds intention to ‘get loaded and have a good time’.
The Prodigy stormed the main stage on Friday night with a white-hot set, combining rave chaos with a smidgen of rock angst. From the moment Maxim took the mic, he challenged the crowd to “bring the rave energy to Derbyshire”—and they did. Liam Howlett commanded the decks with surgical precision, coming on to “Voodoo People” and “No Good (Start the Dance)” that sent shockwaves through the Peak District hills.
From the pit, I could feel the bass inside my chest. Totally in awe of the way they command the stage, I struggled to concentrate on taking pictures at one point, watching in awe. The atmosphere was charged. Strobes sliced their way through the clear sky and basslines penetrated the ground beneath thousands of unsteady feet. Those that struggled to cope with the intensity of the moment, were crowd-surfed to the barrier and delivered to safety by security who did a marvellous job.
This was more than a music performance, it was a celebration of chaos, a rebellion against all acceptable norms but most of all, a reminder of why The Prodigy continues to be one of the most respected live dance acts in the world, today. Their set was one of the standout memorable moments of the weekend, and this experience will stay with me for a very long time.
Red Rum Club came out swinging, delivering a high-octane set that included the title track from their new album Buck. But they didn’t stop there—they threw in a cheeky nod to Tarantino with George Baker’s Little Green Bag and Dick Dale’s Misirlou, giving “Joe the Blow” Corby his moment to absolutely shred on the brass.
Then came The Last Dinner Party, a band I’d never seen before but won’t forget anytime soon. The lead singer glided onto the stage in a gloomy black trench coat, only to reveal a flowing cream dress that turned her into a ghostly goddess, floating across the stage like Florence Welch possessed by Kate Bush. The set design was pure theatre—sky blue backdrops, Roman pillars, and a vibe that screamed “grand, dramatic, and slightly unhinged.” The music was great, but I preferred the theatrics.
This all built up beautifully to The Courteeners. Sure, some folks dashed off to see Professor Green and came back raving, but I stuck with my gut—and it paid off. Liam Fray was electric, radiating gratitude and energy that bounced right back from the crowd like a boomerang. The fans were in it, and so was I.
Personal highlights? Pink Cactus Café, Summer, and What Took You So Long—each one hit like a warm hug and a shot of adrenaline. And just when I thought it couldn’t get better, they slipped in the snippet of James’ Tomorrow. Pure magic.
Liam was passionate, enigmatic, and gave everything he had. The rest of the band matched his fire beat for beat. It wasn’t just a gig—it was a celebration.
Sunday – I rolled in a little late that afternoon—life had its reasons—but as I strolled past the Giant Squid tent, something stopped me in my tracks. A voice. Not just any voice, but one that reached out, grabbed me by the collar, and dragged me inside, camera coming out of the bag.
There, in the heart of the pit, stood a young lad named Callum Beattie, pouring his soul into the mic. With his finest Scottish charm, he introduced his next song: Daddy’s Eyes. And let me tell you—this one was a heartstring tugger. It wrapped itself around my insides and gave me a warm hug when his little girl joined him on stage for a high-ten. No pyrotechnics, no gimmicks—just pure, wholesome magic. It was the kind of moment that makes you smile with your whole face.
Shed Seven brought the swagger and the nostalgia in full force as they hit the stage just after 6pm.
From the moment they launched into their set, it was clear the crowd was in for a ride through the golden age of ’90s Britpop. Classic bangers had fans singing every word, and their recent hit Let’s Go Dancing did exactly what it promised—everyone danced. Pint in one hand, arms in the air, it was a proper festival moment.
Frontman Rick Witter proved his hips still have the moves, throwing out those signature shapes and whipping the mic cable around like a rock ‘n’ roll lasso. Guitar god Banks dazzled with his riffs, while Gladwin, Leach, and Johnson held down the rhythm with effortless cool.
Rick kept the energy personal with his traditional shout-outs to fans celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, and everything in between—adding that warm Shed Seven touch. And of course, they wrapped things up with the anthem everyone was waiting for: Chasing Rainbows. A euphoric singalong that left the crowd buzzing and beaming.
Next up: Franz Ferdinand, strutting onto the stage like they’d just walked out of a Bond film and into a disco.
These guys don’t just play music—they ooze cool. Alex Kapranos rocked up in gangster-style brogues teamed with silk yellow bomber jacket. The classic red backdrop set the tone, and each band member struck poses like they were on a Milan catwalk.
Then came Take Me Out, and boom—synchronised jumps! It was like ‘Britpop gods meet Olympic diving’, (minus the pool) and with way more charisma. I’d forgotten just how good they were.
They slipped in some new material that sounded suspiciously like their old material—which is a compliment, because it means they’ve still got that signature sound dialled in. No weird experimental detours, just quality track after quality track, like a jukebox that has ‘Ferdinand banger’ as your only choice.
Sunday night’s headliner: Madness. And yes—it was absolute madness. I’d been buzzing for this all weekend, and it was totally worth the wait. After three days of relentless walking, mild sunburn, and gaining a stone from consuming apple crumbles like they were oxygen, I was ready. But the moment Madness hit the stage, I swear I danced that stone off in 30 seconds flat.
Photographing them? A total circus. Where do you even start? There was so much going on—band members striking high kicks like ska superheroes, the fez-wearing crowd losing their minds, and Suggs doing what Suggs does best: being effortlessly iconic. The band interacted with the photographers like they were old mates at the pub, making the whole thing feel warm, cheeky, and wonderfully British.Musically, they were flawless.
The band delivered hit after hit with the kind of energy that makes you forget they’ve been doing this since 1976. Nearly 50 years on, these Camden Town legends are still breaking boundaries, spreading messages of love and equality, and making thousands of people dance like no one’s watching—even though everyone definitely was. Loved every second. Ending on ‘It must be love’ raised the bar another level as audience members held each other and grabbed hands as they sang along.
Highlight of the weekend – October Drift at the Giant Squid. I strolled casually into the Squid Pit, expecting maybe a mellow indie set or a chance to rest my legs. Instead, I stopped dead in my tracks, mouth wide open, wondering if I’d just walked into a musical exorcism. Frontman Kiran Roy was mid-air punch—repeatedly punching holes in the atmosphere between guitar strums like he was fighting off invisible demons. His face was contorted in pure emotional agony. Behind him, the band matched his intensity beat for beat, like a pack of wolves on a final rampage.
These guys weren’t playing songs—they were bleeding them. Tracks like Blame the Young hit with the force of a freight train driven by heartbreak and distortion. The energy was so raw I was in absolute photography-heaven. Like a kid in a sweet shop.
I hadn’t really planned to be there. I hadn’t even heard of October Drift. But in that moment, I felt like I’d been given a chance to witness something special before it disappears. I was gutted to learn they had earlier announced their split which explained why this felt like a love letter to their fans and not just your regular gig.
Without warning, Kiran Roy launched himself off the stage like a rock ‘n’ roll spider monkey and began scaling a structural pillar—mic in hand, adrenaline clearly doing the driving. Security, suddenly earning their crust, swarmed with expressions of concern.
The crowd? Ecstatic. I couldn’t help but grin along with everyone else as phones shot into the air to capture the chaos. Kiran sang with the kind of passion that makes you forget gravity exists. And somehow, the audience knew what was coming—hands raised instinctively, forming a flesh covered safety net like a scene from a punk rock trust-fall.
It was wild, it was reckless. This is October Drift doing what October Drift do – apparently!
Then came the jump. For a second, I genuinely questioned reality. Kiran Roy launched himself into the crowd like a rockstar missile, and the audience caught him with the precision of a well-rehearsed stunt team. No hesitation, no flinch—just arms raised and ready, forming a human surfboard for the chaos that followed.
He glided across the sea of fans like a rock prophet, mic still in hand, vocals soaring above the madness. It was part gig, part miracle. And I just stood there, jaw on the floor, thinking: Did that really just happen?
If you missed it, you missed one of the UK’s most criminally underrated live acts bowing out with style, sincerity, and enough firepower to light up the Peak District.
As a photographer and self-confessed gig addict, witnessing October Drift was like being hit with a Class A dopamine rush—no prescription required.
It was loud, it was raw, it was beautiful. My camera nearly cried.
Y Not Festival 2025 Verdict. Did they deliver?
Y Not Festival 2025 came in loud, proud, and covered in glitter. On the line-up front, it absolutely delivered—with a vibrant mix of indie rock royalty and local legends that kept the fields buzzing from sunrise to whatever time people finally found their tents or cars. I found mine…. eventually.
Sure, there were a few logistical hiccups(some queues felt like quests), and the hygiene situationoccasionally flirted with medieval—but you could see the intention, the passion, and the heart behind the ethos of this 20-year-old celebration of music and muddy joy – no mud this year though, to my relief.
As a ‘Y Not’ virgin, I delved in headfirst, lapping up the chaos and culture of this wonderful festival. And now standing on the other side of it all, I ask myself: Do I want to do it again? Absolutely. Y the hell Not.
WORDS AND PHOTO CREDIT – SHAVORNE WILBRAHAM
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