Live review: Camp Punksylvania: Day One

Gilbert, PA – 20 June 2025

Still fresh and fun, five years later

From the first moment I stepped onto the grounds of Camp Punksylvania in 2023, it felt like stepping into a punk rock fever dream—equal parts chaos, camaraderie, and charm.  Sure, I never actually went to a real sleepaway camp as a kid (unless binge-watching Salute Your Shorts counts as experience). But Camp Punksylvania made all those campfire fantasies finally come to life… just with more tattoos and circle pits.  Once I got past the gates and saw the counselors (who are somehow even cooler than the ones from Wet Hot American Summer), everything felt like home. It’s more than just a show—it’s a sanctuary.  The counselors, the campers, the activities, they all had me at “Welcome To Camp.”  Now in 2025, I get the opportunity to do it for the third time and stoked isn’t a strong enough word.

Every path along the West End Fairgrounds led to something wild, weird, and wonderful. It was like Woodstock had a baby with CBGB and let it loose in the woods with distortion pedals, and a mission to spread community. Thanks to the Riot Squad Media crew, this place radiates everything that makes punk rock matter: inclusion, celebration, and a healthy dose of rebellion. From the Union Cult Stage to the DIY tattoo setups, the team has crafted a space that’s not just about music… Its a beautiful, loud mess of outcasts and intriguing sights.  Dancing bananas? You got it! Guerrilla skate-park? Check! A circle pit featuring a hulking bicylist with booty shorts and a juggling unicyclist? Of course you’ll find it at Camp… oh and of course, the magic is amplified by the music… but first the annual kickoff.  Previously led by Coffee With Lions,  There’s just something deeply punk (and deeply necessary) about easing into a day of punk with Pabst and pals—and not having to BYO anything (not even Kool-Aid Jammers) makes it all the better. Leading the charge this year were head counselors Kenzi and Terry, who did their part to get campers hyped. They sounded off the camp’s reveille and made it clear: sleeping in was not an option. It was time to drag your patched-up ass out of your tent and dive headfirst into the day’s lineup.

The fest proper kicked off on the Union Cult Stage, with Houston & The Dirty Rats, a high-energy electric folk trio.  The pride of Phillipsburg, NJ struck the match to camp and blazed through a raw, relentless set that was impossible to keep quiet to. Next up on the same stage Scarboro’s set was well worth the wait… even if a long setup (or maybe a breakdown hangover from Houston and the Dirty Rats) pushed their start time back. Once they hit the stage, though, it was an immediate fuck yes moment. Their high-energy performance included a ripping cover of the Descendents‘ “Coffee Mug” and a powerful bilingual song of resistance that had the crowd fully locked in. The delay did cause the festival’s no-overlap promise to break early, with Direct Hit starting on the main stage just before Scarboro wrapped up, but for those who weathered the delay and didn’t leave the performance early, the payoff was undeniable.

Direct Hit kicked things off on the main stage, day 1. I don’t know how I missed the boat on these lovely punks for so long, but wow!!! Direct Hit brought a passionate energy to Friday’s lineup at Camp Punksylvania. Their set was an adrenaline shot straight to the soul, tight and explosive from start (or when I made my way to it from Scarboro’s set) to finish. Just… wow wow wowza.

Philadelphia’s Beef was the act that turned a lot of heads last year but I made the terrible mistake of missing them. After finally catching their set this time around, I fucking get all the rave reviews now. Don’t let the quartet’s sprightly age fool you; their songwriting and musicianship are leagues beyond their years. What a fucking phenomenal set—Jesus H, these young punks get it.

Next up on the Main Stage were Canadian legends Cancer Bats.  This set was one of the highlights of the day (though not the best set featuring these dudes).  This heavier style of music is not usually my thing, but I will follow the Bats to the ends of the earth every time. Brutal. Violent. Cacophony. Therapy.  Cancer Bats were mind-blowingly great who had the entire grounds bouncing, slamming and partaking in some minor self-reflection.  Who needs BetterHelp, when you have Camp?

Camp veterans Vulture Raid lit up the Riot Stage with raw passion and unshakable energy as the sun dipped behind them, showcasing the electric chemistry of father-son duo Oscar Capps III and IV. Their bold cover of “Gangsta’s Paradise” was a personal highlight, but every song in the set peeled back another layer of the band’s talent and energy. 

Back on the Main Stage, Scowl took the nonsense trope of a manic pixie dream girl and vomits it right on your fucking chest (in the best way possible). With satirical dance moves, exaggerated smiles, and sheer sonic force, they had the crowd screaming lyrics back at frontperson Kat Moss as she tore across the stage like a punk rock banshee. Toward the back, the pit exploded early and didn’t stop until the final note. From start to finish, the set was pure chaos and catharsis—movement never stopped, and neither did the adrenaline.

The Riot Stage closed up with Buffalo hardcore act Spaced.  The purveyors of “far-out harcore” delivered dancy grooves and brutal beats that had the pit circling like a storm and the crowd bouncing in unison. Their set was a perfect blend of chaos and rhythm, leaving no space for stillness with the raucous set.  

Dillinger 4 closed out the Main Stage with the kind of performance that makes the wait more than worth it. As one of the last Fat Wreck Chords-era bands I hadn’t caught live, finally seeing them was a 25-year-long payoff—I first fell in love with D4 in the late ’90s, only to discover that their touring schedule had become frustratingly rare. But they did not disappoint. The band tore through a setlist that spanned their entire career, each track delivered with grit, humor, and absolutely no signs of rust. In true D4 fashion, their between-song banter hit as hard as their riffs, with gems like frontman Paddy Costello’s blistering commentary: “I’m not saying there is no god, I think there is one—he’s just a dick.” It was a cathartic, funny, and furious set that felt like both a punk show and a long-overdue reunion.

Kicking off the Shadow Stage with an explosion of energy and purpose, SOJI delivered a set that felt less like a performance and more like a full-body rallying cry. Ho-o-o-o-ollly fuck, what a show—the four-piece is an experience to take part in, not just watch. Each member brought their own distinct fire to the stage, fusing individuality into a unified force of melody, rage, and unapologetic conviction. Cramped inside cement-walled quarters that turned every note into a cannon blast, SOJI never faltered, never held back, and never stopped moving. Their set was politically-charged, punk defiance wrapped in skill and sincerity. In a world full of noise and bullshit, SOJI is exactly what we need now.

Somehow, the night only got better. Fuck. Yes. As if SOJI hadn’t already set the bar sky-high, the next act, Bat Sabbath, came crashing through with one of the festival’s absolute best sets. Cancer Bats reclaimed the audience attention, this time at Shadow Stage, transforming into their Black Sabbath-worshipping alter egos and delivering a killer cover set packed with the heaviest, most beloved Sabbath tracks. From their updated retro stage outfits to the campy, spot-on homage to ‘70s rock theatrics, Bat Sabbath didn’t just play the songs..  they became them (I even think I saw some ants in the nose of front. It was loud, loose, and completely over the top in the best way possible, and by the end of their set, the entire crowd was headbanging in total submission.

The Lawrence Arms closed out night one of Camp Punksylvania with a set that felt like the most glorious basement show ever thrown. I was absolutely here for it. From the moment they launched into their set, the energy was wild: stage dives and crowd surfers never stopped, and neither did the singalongs. It was my first time seeing the boys in 20 years, and somehow, from my spot in the crowd, it felt like nothing had changed—they were just as tight, rowdy, and heartfelt as ever. The playlist was flawless, the vibe electric, and the audience completely unhinged in the best possible way. At 11:30 p.m., inside a concrete-walled shed, it was fucking glorious—the kind of set that defines a festival. You could see members of other bands and thecrew watching from the wings, wide-eyed and big-grinned in disbelief and awe at just how effortlessly The Lawrence Arms still crush it, all of wondering how the hell the trio still do it so well.

As the stage lights dimmed and the final notes of the night rang out, I found myself so lost in the moment that I briefly forgot I was a fucking moron who thought driving two hours home instead of camping was a solid life choice (3 consecutive years I’ve made this same terrible decision… will bitch about it again in 2026, I’m sure). Reality hit hard but even during the bleary-eyed drive, I was beaming, singing along to the songs still echoing in my head, replaying moments like mental mixtape highlights, and silently fist-pumping the incredible organizers and staff who made the day so unforgettable. Every ache and yawn felt like a badge of honor. And while my poor decision-making skills would catch up to tonight, my excitement for the next day’s chaos burned even hotter. But we’ll get into that tomorrow.