Gilbert, PA – 19 June, 2026
Like any good campfire, the scariest part was believing the whispers in the first place
Every camp has its stories. Not the ones told from stage between songs. The older ones. The ones passed from camper to camper as the fire burns low and the woods begin making noises of their own.
They say that if you’re driving toward Camp Punksylvania and you hear a three-headed cat yowling from the dark, you should turn around. If you wander too close to the alleys between campsites after dark, voices will call out from somewhere beyond the trees. They’ll tell you Camp isn’t what it ought to be. They’ll insist the magic is fake. They’ll whisper that you’re wasting your time and should head home while you still can. The campers know better. The whispers only have as much power as you’re willing to give them.
So when the three-headed cat crossed my path Friday morning, I put my head down and ignored every warning it carried, and kept walking toward the Union Cult Stage. The whispers never stood a chance.
Camp officially awoke with Laura, Terry, McKenzie and the Riot Squad welcoming everyone home with a salute and a salud. Under the open-sided shelter of the Union Cult Stage, surrounded by familiar faces and first-timers alike, it felt less like opening ceremonies and more like the beginning of an annual ritual. For my fourth trip to Camp Punksylvania, it felt exactly like coming home.
Since its inception last year, The Union Cult Stage has been one of Camp’s best-kept secrets. No barricades. No elevated platform separating artist from audience. Just grass beneath your feet and enough room for chaos to happen naturally.
The first spell of the weekend belonged to The Chugs. The Chugs wasted absolutely none of their time…. A set devoted entirely to Hamm’s beer shouldn’t be as ridiculously entertaining as it is, but songs like “All Hamms On Deck” and their Minnesota-inspired reworking of “California” transformed the crowd from spectators into participants. By the end of the set, microphones were shared, arms were draped over strangers’ shoulders, and the entire stage looked less like a performance than a family reunion that happened to have amplifiers.
Somewhere beyond the tree line, I could almost hear the whispers again. It was another lie. Because every year, the side stages introduce me to a band I didn’t know I needed. This year, that band was Beverly Lanes. The Niagara Falls outfit delivered a revelation of post-punk energy. Equal parts swagger, melody and irresistible ass-shakeability, Beverly Lanes immediately made me wonder where they came from. Knowing a few members from other acts had done nothing to prepare me for how captivating they would be live. Consider me converted. I’ll be inhaling everything they release next.
Over on the Main Stage, Bev Rage and the Drinks could easily fool someone seeing them for the first time. Towering hair, larger-than-life personality… it’s easy to assume the visual is the whole show. It isn’t. Behind Bev’s charismatic banter sits an incredibly tight band writing exactly the kind of melodic, hook-filled punk that lives in my sweet spot. Every sarcastic aside gave the crowd just enough room to breathe before diving headfirst into another blast of frothy, fast-paced fun. Sure, your eyes naturally gravitate toward a seven-foot queen with gravity-defying hair, but The Drinks demand your attention every bit as much.
The whispers continued.
Then Cheap Perfume took the Riot Stage. Some bands carry expectations. Others obliterate them. Having released one of my favorite records of last year, my hopes were impossibly high. Cheap Perfume somehow climbed over that impossible bar with ease. The Riot Stage crowd locked in immediately, bodies colliding, voices shouting every word back toward the stage. A light rain drifted in midway through the set, but neither band nor audience cared. If anything, it only made the performance feel more alive. It wasn’t simply one of the day’s best sets. It felt like a victory lap around the ominous whispers and cattiness ahead of this weekend.
The Main Stage shifted gears but lost none of its power as 1876 took over. Their blend of thunderous war-drum beatinging, snarling punk guitars and melodies created one of the most unique performances of the festival. Every song carried weight beyond its riffs, addressing Ndgenous resilience, resurgence, historical triumphs and social injustice without sacrificing an ounce of intensity. They didn’t just entertain. They reminded us why punk still matters.
If 1876 delivered thunder, Babe Haven unleashed the storm. The Riot Stage proved the perfect home for the band’s throat-ripping screams, crushing riffs and magnetic stage presence. Every note felt like controlled demolition. It wasn’t long before everyone packed around the stage understood exactly why Babe Haven continues building momentum.
Pinkshift absolutely floored me. I’ve known the name. I’ve heard the songs. Somehow none of that prepared me for just how commanding they would be on the Main Stage. Every member radiated confidence while delivering a set overflowing with energy, precision and pure joy. Some performances surprise you. This one embarrassed me for ever underestimating them.
As daylight began giving way to evening, one of my most anticipated sets finally arrived.
The last time I saw Scott Radinsky, he was standing on a pitcher’s mound for the Dodgers nearly thirty years ago. Shortly afterward I discovered Pulley. Somehow, despite decades of listening, I’d never seen them live. That changed Friday. Watching Radinsky command the Riot Stage with the same intensity he once brought to a major league mound was every bit as satisfying as I’d hoped. Pulley didn’t simply meet decades of anticipation. They rewarded every year of waiting.
Then came PUP. As Friday’s headliner hit the Main Stage, the field transformed into organized anarchy. Circle pits swallowed patches of grass whole. Voices echoed across the campground. Dirt replaced the lawn beneath hundreds of stomping feet. What has always made PUP special isn’t simply their songwriting. It’s their sincerity.
Every lyric, every movement and every drop of sweat feels genuine. They wear vulnerability like armor, and the audience responds in kind. It wasn’t just a headline performance. It was communal catharsis.
Most festivals begin winding down after the headliner. Camp Punksylvania simply changes scenery.
The Stupid Rad Shadow Stage came alive with The Chemical Imbalance delivering what can only be described as a ska-core catharsis. Frontman Weftin stalked the room like a misunderstood monster from the forests, balancing manic energy with remarkable vulnerability. 10-year-old Camp veteran Ox and Ox’s young friends danced onstage while Camp showman That’s Ridiculous Nicholas somehow made juggling feel like the most natural part of the show. Because at Camp, somehow it was.
Working Class Stiffs followed with phenomenal sound, undeniable chemistry and a standout cover of Suicide Machines‘ “Islands” before Potato Pirates closed my Shadow Stage adventure with exactly the kind of beer-soaked, shout-along celebration their reputation promises.
Eventually every ghost story ends where it began. Around a campfire. Ryan Cassata needed little more than an acoustic guitar, a roaring blaze and a crowd willing to listen. Following an open-mic gathering of campers, Cassata transformed the Campfire Stage into one final communal moment, delivering songs rooted in politics, progress and humanity beneath a sky growing darker by the minute.
Eventually I made the familiar walk back toward my car. The woods were quiet. The whispers had disappeared. Maybe they’d accepted defeat. Or maybe they had already slipped back into the trees, waiting for next year’s campers, hoping someone new might believe them. That’s the thing about whispers. They only survive if someone keeps repeating them.
Day One of Camp Punksylvania 2026 buried them beneath distorted guitars and hundreds of voices singing together. I ignored the whispers. I’m awfully glad I did.
Bad Dad (occasionally called Ed) has been on the periphery of the punk and punk-adjacent scene for over twenty years. While many contributors to this site have musical experience and talent, Ed’s musical claim to fame comes from his time in arguably the most punk rock Blockbuster Video district in NJ where he worked alongside members of Blanks 77, Best Hit TV and Brian Fallon. He is more than just an awful father to his 2 daughters, he is also a dreadful husband, a subpar writer, a terrible dresser and has a severe deficiency in all things talent… but hey, at least he’s self-aware, amirite?
Check out the pathetic attempts at photography on his insta at https://www.instagram.com/bad_dad_photography/