Neil Young
The godfather of grunge, unbowed — ragged glory guitar and a songbook that spans half a century of American unease.
Glastonbury 2025 has already wrapped — but you can still dig through the lineup and find the acts you would have loved.
Worthy Farm's last dance before the fallow year — The 1975, Neil Young and Olivia Rodrigo on the Pyramid, Rod Stewart in the legends slot, and a hundred stages beyond.
Search it, filter by day, stage or genre — save anything straight to your schedule.
The godfather of grunge, unbowed — ragged glory guitar and a songbook that spans half a century of American unease.
Gen-Z's laureate of the breakup — SOUR bedroom confessionals grown into GUTS pop-punk stadium catharsis.
Manchester's self-aware pop provocateurs — 80s gloss, terminally online lyrics, and a frontman who treats every show like performance art.
Jagged Little Pill at festival scale — the '90s' most cathartic songbook, still sung full-throated by everyone in the field.
Amy Taylor might be the best frontperson alive right now — Aussie pub-punk voltage, all sprint and snarl, from a band that treats every stage like a title fight.
Fuzzy '90s-leaning indie-pop grown into lush, easy songcraft — from bedroom demos to Rick Rubin sessions without losing the diary-page intimacy.
Scotland's shirtless festival warriors — knotty math-rock instincts wired to enormous singalong choruses.
Americana's reigning voice — eleven Grammys of thunder and grace, with a catalog that moves from whisper to belt like weather changing.
Roots reggae's living conscience — Marcus Garvey hymns delivered with unshakeable calm.
Three decades of the fastest, most physically committed delivery in rap, and none of it has slowed down — a hits catalog that turns any field into a block party.
Smoke-voiced British soul — torch songs with modern nerve, a BRIT-anointed voice built for the spotlight and the string section.
Pop's reigning vanguardist — the brat era's architect bringing club-pop chaos to the main stage, a decade of underground experiments finally cashing out at scale.
Irish country-pop with a wicked sense of humor and a bigger voice — a riotous live show that swings from comedy to gut-punch inside one chorus.
Kieran Hebden's glowing folk-tronic universe — patient builds that hit like revelation, two decades of textures that make dance music feel handmade.
Glasgow's art-school dance-punks — 'Take Me Out' still detonates a field two decades on, and the deep cuts still make people dance.
The voice of Creedence — swamp-rock standards that never left the radio, sung by the man who wrote them.
Walsall's great modern soul voice — restrained, jazz-schooled, and equally at home over a garage beat, 'Blue Lights' still stunning.
'I Predict a Riot' still starts one — Leeds lads keeping mid-2000s indie's terrace-chant energy alive.
Scotland's self-deprecating balladeer — arena-filling heartbreak delivered between stand-up-quality banter.
Confessional South London hip-hop — jazz-warm, tender, and quietly huge, verses about family and flaws delivered like conversation.
The most sampled guitar in history — 'Good Times' to 'Get Lucky', a nonstop masterclass in why disco never died.
New England folk-pop about small towns and staying put, delivered with the kind of full-throated chorus that turns an amphitheatre into a choir.
Welsh brothers making the decade's defining UK bass — tender vocals over hard breaks, 'So U Kno' still a shared euphoria.
Jarvis Cocker's common people, still uncommon — Britpop's sharpest wit in glorious late-era form, 'Common People' still detonating class rage.
Britain's Grammy-and-BRIT-sweeping songwriter freed from label limbo — big-band soul-pop with real stakes, and a live show that earns every award.
Six decades of gravel and swagger — from the Faces to the Great American Songbook, still rock's raspiest showman.
'A Bar Song (Tipsy)' made him the crossover story of the decade — country hooks over hip-hop bones.
Grime's global ambassador — Konnichiwa-era bars and a DJ's instincts, London energy at any scale, 'Shutdown' still a detonation.
Britpop's cheekiest survivors — 'Alright' forever young, the catalog sneakily one of the era's best.
Albion's prodigal poets — Doherty and Barât still shambolic, still romantic, still the best bad idea British rock ever had.
Firestarters, still — the UK's rave-punk institution hits harder than bands half their age, three decades of menace intact.
Dublin's arena-pop reliables — 'Breakeven' and a decade of radio-rock comfort food.
2 Tone originals — Pauline Black fronting ska's sharpest political dance party since 1979.
Hardcore's joyful crossover kings — dreamy interludes, stage dives, total communion, and a crowd that moves as one.
Deadpan, hook-loaded post-punk — the Isle of Wight duo grown into a full-blast rock band, 'Chaise Longue' just the opening joke.
Mercury-winning UK alt-rock — from whispered folk to full-throated fuzz in one set, Ellie Rowsell commanding every register.
West London grime star gone festival-sized — melodic flexes, 'Ladbroke Grove' garage bounce, and a UK-rap versatility that moves between road and radio without strain.
Northern Irish power-pop with an absurd hit rate in the late 90s and no interest in slowing the tempo since.
Hushed English folk with a river-water voice — quietly one of the best writers of her generation, turning small domestic details into devastating songs.
Josh Tillman's lounge-lizard prophet act — gorgeous orchestration, acid wit, and a crooner's delivery that sells every barbed line.
Pedal steel and yacht-rock chords under deadpan songwriting about being slightly bored and very sad — Atlanta cool that turned ennui into a signature sound.
Neuroscientist-turned-producer moving between orchestral ambient and genuinely propulsive dance floors — equally at home with Pharoah Sanders and a peak-time rave.
The man who made synthesisers sound alien, then spent his second act making them sound industrial — 'Cars' to Nine Inch Nails gravity, one career.
Protest-minded alt-rock with trap production underneath — agitprop you can actually move to, delivered with genuine live-wire intensity.
Little Mix's Jade gone gloriously weird — 'Angel of My Dreams' announced a real pop auteur, camp and chaos with A-list polish.
Belfast's bilingual rap provocateurs — republican mischief, mosh-pit energy, real bars, and a film's worth of mythology already.
'Messy' made her unavoidable — raw South London soul-pop with a busted-heart snarl and a voice that earns the Winehouse comparisons.
The NZ art-pop auteur — brooding, minimal, and generation-defining, back on a headline stage where the whispered verses hit hardest.
London duo running bass through every pedal ever made — grime swagger welded to punk riffs, a two-woman wall of sound.
Daft Punk-approved Aussie disco — immaculate grooves, live-band tightness, five-part harmonies over four-on-the-floor, played tight enough to pass a studio audit.
Two-minute drum'n'bass-pop confections — the internet's most influential songwriter-per-second, nostalgia sampled into something brand new, hooks gone before you can replay them.
British indie-pop with a sharp lyrical edge — bright arrangements carrying much darker subject matter, Croydon storytelling on the rise.
Piano ballads sung at full throat — one enormous heartbreak single and a catalogue that keeps getting starker, braver by the record.
Raw-nerve UK rock — Cobain-worn songwriting building a serious cult, intensity that reads as truth, a band critics keep underestimating upward.