Laneway Festival 2026 Grows Up: From Back-Alley Cool to Stadium-Sized Spectacle
- Waxx Lyrical
- 46 minutes ago
- 12 min read
LANEWAY FESTIVAL 2026
After lighting up Aussie summers for over two decades now, St. Jerome's Laneway Festival returned for 2026, evolving from inner city beginnings into a travelling carnival of the new, the next and the just about to explode. Its uncanny predictions of what’s coming didn’t begin as master strategy, but as necessity. With smaller budgets than juggernauts like Big Day Out, founder Danny Rogers had to zig while others zagged. The result? A festival that built its reputation on instinct, taste and a willingness to gamble early. Rogers recently unpacked that philosophy in Rolling Stone. It’s well worth your time (read it here).
Big Day Out, of course, called it quits in 2014 after hosting everyone from Nirvana on their first ever lineup to the granite carved bombast of Metallica, Nine Inch Nails, Björk, TOOL, Blink-182 and Marilyn Manson. They championed Aussie artists hard but it was always sea of black tees and sunburnt shoulders.
Laneway in 2026, its 21st year, presents a different colour palette entirely. Headlined by Chappell Roan, she of ‘Pink Pony Club’, the festival grounds became a swirling theatre of pink cowboy hats, heavy makeup and maximalist costuming. The aesthetic shift says plenty about where the centre of pop culture currently lives. Gone are the days of the monolithic rock behemoth dominating the bill. In their place: hyper curated pop spectacle, choreographed euphoria, and yes, backing tracks ticking away with unwavering metronomic precision.
And yet, when guitars roar and drums do crack across an open field, something ancient still stirs. The stages are built for live bands. When rock does appear, it tends to steal the show. There’s still nothing quite like the physical thud of strings and skin moving actual air.
With stages humming from early afternoon and footpaths rapidly turning into rivers of tote bags, sunburn and band tees, there’s simply too much to take in from one vantage point. So this year, we did what any sensible music obsessives would do. We split the atom.
From the humidity and occasionally brutal logistics of a new Gold Coast site to the big smoke sprawl of Sydney, Ben Preece and Annette Geneva stationed themselves on different ends of the Laneway journey, notebooks in hand, ears wide open. Same lineup. Different brains. Different light. Different crowd energy. Different chaos.
Because Laneway isn’t one story. It’s a hundred happening at once.
Consider this a dual dispatch. Two microscopes trained on the same organism, watching it pulse in parallel.
THE BEL AIR LIP BOMBS
It's raining, the kind of rain that soaks your cuffs and makes everything feel a little more cinematic. The Belair Lip Bombs walk on like it doesn't matter. Like the weather is just another texture. But then again…. in Sydney - the weather is always just another texture. Their set feels tight and bright against the grey. 'Again and Again' kicks things open with that familiar, wiry urgency. 'Back of My Hand' and 'Another World' follow like a reminder of why their songs work so well live - direct, unpretentious, built for shouting along even when your fringe is plastered to your forehead.
By 'Gimme Gimme' and 'Stay or Go', the rain has fully committed, and so has the crowd. There’s something about guitar pop in bad weather, - it stops being precious and starts being physical. 'Look the Part' cut clean through and they close on 'Hey You' and it feels like a small, defiant sing-along pact between strangers. Wet shoes, buzzing ears.
— Annette
TEEN JESUS AND THE JEAN TEASERS
Teen Jesus And The Jean Teasers don't try to outrun the rain either. They play straight into it. From the opening bark of 'AHHHH!' the set feels physical. Bigger crowd, air heavy, guitars cutting through like they were sharpened backstage. 'Watching Me Leave' and 'I Love You' land with that familiar Teen Jesus mix of bite and vulnerability. Nothing performative, just truth yelling loud enough to reach the back fence. I’ve listened to TJ&TJT for a while now and I really got into time via their work with CJ Marks. This set completely enamours me and turns me into a fan. The energy is infectious. I want more.
By 'Mine' and 'I Used to Be Fun', the weather ceases being an inconvenience and begins acting like an accomplice. The songs feel bigger soaked. More necessary. 'Girl Sports' hits like a release valve, sweat and rain indistinguishable, while the crowd leans in instead of backing away. There’s something feral and generous about the way they hold a stage. The frontperson energy is confrontational but warm. Like being dared to feel something and then being looked after once you do.
'Salt' and 'Wonderful' carry a strange, bright momentum. Defiant joy, but with so much grit. And by the time 'Mother', 'Lights Out' and 'Balcony' close it out, everyone is ruined in the best way.
It's when one of those Laneway sets that reminds you why outdoor festivals matter. When bands don’t fight the conditions, they become part of the weather.
— Annette
BENEE
By the time BENEE hits the stage, the rain has packed it in. Like it knew its job was done. There's a lightness in the air that feels earned. Wet ground, clear sky, that soft post-storm calm where everything sounds a little brighter. 'Sad Boiii' opens gently, but it doesn't stay gentle for long. The set moves fast and fluid, confidence snapping into place with 'Cinnamon' and 'Vegas'. And then there was the band. The drummer and guitarist have absolutely no business rocking this hard in what could have been a breezy pop slot. Tight, punchy, locked-in. The drums especially push everything forward. Not flashy, just relentless in the best way. 'Beach Boy' and 'Soaked' hit with extra muscle, grooves deeper than expected, edges sharper.
BENEE herself feels relaxed but dialled in. Playful without drifting, emotionally present without over-explaining. 'Demons' and 'Glitter' shimmer in that late-afternoon light, pop songs stretching out just enough to breathe. 'Princess' and 'Underwater' lean into feeling rather than spectacle.
The 'Afterthought' Joji cover slows everything down in the right way. A small hush over the crowd before 'Supalonely' cracks it right back open, joy and irony holding hands. Smiles everywhere. Heads nodding. Bodies finally dry. A reminder that BENEE isn’t just a vibe or a moment. With the right band behind her, she’s powerful, grounded, and way more rock-adjacent than she gets credit for. The rain stops. The set takes off.
— Annette.
Meanwhile, BENEE on the Gold Coast is an exercise in spatial absurdity. Joccy’s Stage, perched inconveniently atop a hill and squeezed into a pocket clearly designed for something gentler, simply cannot contain her pull. The crowd swells. The pathways clog. Sightlines vanish. What should feel buoyant instead feels like trying to throw a house party in a broom cupboard. We won’t spiral into the broader site logistics or the chasm between the beloved RNA Showgrounds and the Southport experiment, courtesy of looming 2032 Olympics reshuffles. There are other corners of the internet for that autopsy.
But back to the music.
GEESE
On a return pilgrimage to Joccy’s Stage for Geese’s first ever Australian set, something quietly surreal unfolds. Frontman Cameron Winter emerges in his trademark white singlet, and it slowly dawns on the early arrivers that the band are setting up their own gear and soundchecking themselves. Notheatrics, pre-recorded intro tape. Just cables, amps and a five piece from Brooklyn doing the grunt work. Stranger still, barely anyone blinks. Within ten minutes, those same mild mannered onlookers are howling lyrics back at the stage at a volume that threatens to swallow the PA whole. The hype surrounding the Brooklyn outfit has been industrial in scale and, bizarrely, has crossed into the mainstream, yet the band of the moment — Winter on vocals, guitar and keys, Emily Green on guitar, Dominic DiGesu on bass, Max Bassin on drums and touring member Sam Revaz on keys — seem somewhat oblivious, or unfazed at least and take it in their stride with little fanfance or even perfomance. Yet the almost-shy charisma spilling from Winter is palpable.
They lurch into ‘Husbands’, its wobbly, off kilter pulse and deceptively simple chorus instantly binding the rabid, Rabid, RABID faithful in front of them. It is an oddly casual opener, almost loose to the point of fragility, but any doubt evaporates as they snap into ‘100 Horses’, all kinetic release and classic rock swagger. Highlights stack up quickly, from the swooning beauty of ‘Au Pays du Cocaine’ to the barn burning ‘Cowboy Nudes’ and the frenetic ‘2122’, the latter giving the dude bros their sanctioned thrash window.
Winter keeps the chatter sparse. When he does lean into the mic between songs, that woozy, elastic baritone spills out and raises a small existential question: why does this kid from Brooklyn sound like he wandered in from some backroad Southern county fair? There’s a country lilt flickering through the chaos, a hint of roadhouse preacher buried in the art school haze. Their emergence out of Brooklyn inevitably invites comparisons to The Strokes, and Winter’s drawl carries faint echoes of Julian Casablancas refracted through Mick Jagger and bent slightly out of shape by Thom Yorke. But he is no tribute act. The kid has his own peculiar magnetism, and that only deepens the mystique.
It is heartening, genuinely, to witness a guitar band making this kind of hyperbolic racket in 2026. Art rock noise colliding with perfectly constructed songs. ‘Bow Down’ detonates into another frenzy, while ‘Taxes’ earns the loudest cheers and most committed singalongs of the afternoon. That is until the closing ‘Trinidad’. You have not lived until you have seen a field full of kids throwing themselves about beneath eucalyptus trees, screaming “THERE’S A BOMB IN MY CAR” like there actually is.
The set is far too short. But catching last year’s most thrilling bands, outdoors, sweat in the air and bark underfoot, is the sort of memory that sticks.
— Ben
WET LEG
Over to the main stages and one thing becomes immediately obvious. There isn’t an actual laneway in sight these days. This thing has ballooned. What began life tucked between brick walls in small city locations now sprawls like the second coming of Big Day Out. The sightlines are enormous.
Wet Leg are already playing upon arrival, and the first striking detail is just how much Rhian Teasdale has evolved as a frontperson in what feels like the blink of an eye. She commands the stage like it owes her money. One moment she’s flexing like a prize fighter in the ring, the next she’s sliding across the floor with theatrical abandon, all limbs and attitude. Then, between songs in a disarming contrast, the switch flips. The bravado dissolves and she speaks softly, almost shyly, as if surprised by the roar she’s just conjured.
Wet Leg’s sound has always thrived on that tension. Deadpan humour and brutally open lyrics colliding unapologetically with serrated guitar lines. Minimalism that is maximal in a field of thousands. Live, the songs thicken and the guitars snarl louder, the rhythm section hits harder, and the sly asides feel sharper.
Their set is highlight heavy and difficult to fault. ‘catch these fists’ and ‘Wet Dream’ land early like a one two combination pulled straight from separate chapters of their catalogue, the crowd obliging with instant, unified volume. ‘davina mccall’ introduces a subtle dynamic shift, stretching into something moodier and more elastic, even if only briefly. ‘mangetout’ proves why it has become the current rallying cry, while ‘Chaise Longue’ remains the unavoidable anthem, that strange, spoken word earworm that refuses to age.
There is a formula here, undeniably. Dry wit. and crunching riffs. A hook you can shout with your mates. But it is a formula that still crackles with life. The band are tighter, louder and more self assured than ever and they do what they do very well, and for now at least, it feels effortlessly appealing. In a festival climate increasingly dominated by choreography, backing tracks and pixel perfect pop spectacle, there is something refreshing about five people, a stack of amps and songs built to be yelled back at the sky. Wet Leg may have started as a punchline to some. On a stage this size, they are anything but.
— Ben
WOLF ALICE
Move your eyes to the neighbouring stage and within minutes the mighty Wolf Alice explode onto stage with the magnificent ‘Bloom Baby Bloom’, framed by a colossal glitter-soaked star that feels part glam theatre, part celestial omen. Vocally, it is an ambitious opener, to say the least. The sound crew scramble slightly to contain Ellie Rowsell’s ferocious vocal, a song that demands for both lung capacity and emotional abandon. She roars early, staking her claim. Another frontwoman transformed. The shy, fringe curtained, shoegaze leaning figure of past tours is gone and has evolved into a fully fledged rock goddess, all command and confrontation.
For this reviewer, Wolf Alice remain the consummate modern British band, a contemorary fave. Four near flawless albums in, they occupy that rare space between art rock ambition and festival ready immediacy. Each and every song is something of a well-rounded written mini-masterpiece and predicting a setlist now feels like forecasting weather on another planet, (or Melbourne). They can go anywhere.
‘White Horses’ arrives next, drummer Joel Amey taking the spotlight on lead vocals. It is truly a brilliant song, no doubt, but is in an odd placement so early in the set, its introspective glide and difference in vocalist perhaps better suited later in the set. No matter. ‘Formidable Cool’ snaps the tempo back into place before ‘How Do I Make It OK’ swells into one of the evening's most euphoric climaxes, Rowsell’s voice stretching skyward as thousands sing the hook back.
There is, though, a flicker of something slightly off. Rowsell’s energy surges and recedes in waves. Is she under the weather? Fatigued? Jet lagged? It is hard to tell from the field, but the effort is visible. Meanwhile, the rest of the band grind magnificently. Amey is relentless behind the kit, guitarist Joff Oddie shakes out those glorious 1970s locks while carving through riff after riff, and Theo Ellis anchors it all with quiet intensity.
‘The Sofa’ drifts in like a late afternoon haze, understated and tender. ‘Bros’ does what ‘Bros’ always does, detonating nostalgia and unity in equal measure. For a few minutes, the entire festival feels stitched together by that chorus. Then comes the later set stretch, and whatever reserves Rowsell has been guarding are unleashed. The punk-fused snarl of ‘Yuk Foo’ and the adrenalised sprint of ‘Play The Greatest Hits’ tear across the field, giving way to the Zeppelin-sized riffage of ‘Giant Peach’. It is properly huge and a reminder that when Wolf Alice lean into volume, they do so without apology.
Yet it is the dreamy, house-tinged pulse of ‘Don’t Delete The Kisses’ that casts the final spell. The crowd begins subtly migrating, inching closer to the barricades for the headliner, but for a few glowing minutes they are suspended in that shimmering groove. Wolf Alice return in December with their tour for latest album, The Clearing, and it will be a joy to see these songs indoors, free from festival constraints and competing basslines. In a room built for them, with a sound system fully under control, they may well feel unstoppable.
— Ben
CHAPPELL ROAN
By the time Chappell Roan arrives, the field has transformed into a fever dream in pink. Cowboy hats. Sequins. Glitter tears painted with surgical precision. Entire friendship groups dressed as if they’ve stepped out of ‘Pink Pony Club’’s neon fantasia. If Big Day Out was once a sea of black, Laneway 2026 is a tidal wave of bubblegum and bravado.
She emerges to the loudest roar of the day, detonating straight into ‘Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl’ and ‘Femininomenon’. Total bangers. For someone who has only skimmed the highlight reel of her catalogue and recently witnessed the full scale pop theatre of Lady Gaga, the ambition is immediately clear. Roan is dressed like some glam medieval court jester, framed by a fantasy backdrop of dragons and gothic arches. It’s maximal, camp and knowingly theatrical.
This is not a standard pop headline slot. It lands somewhere between theatre, cabaret and queer revival meeting. Roan commands the stage with the assurance of someone who has sharpened these instincts in smaller, sweatier rooms. The voice is enormous live. She belts like she’s attempting structural damage, yet keeps her pitch locked while sprinting between choreography and call and response cues.
‘The Subway’ lands with genuine ache, and ‘Casual’ proves even more devastating in this open air setting, its slow burn chorus soaring surprisingly well over a restless festival crowd. Then the pivot. ‘HOT TO GO!’ explodes into full cheer squad euphoria, a ‘Mickey’ for the TikTok age, turning the entire site into a synchronised dancefloor. The crowd dutifully spells it out with evangelical commitment. What could read as kitsch on paper becomes communal ritual in practice.
The reaction is seismic. At times, we genuinely can’t hear her. Every lyric is shouted back, arms flung skyward. It becomes less a performance and more a shared exorcism. The slower songs hit hardest, Roan visibly bleeds for these ones, it seems, her earnest sincerity cuts through the glitter fog and is obviously part of her appeal.
She has done her homework too. A cover of 'Barracuda' by Heart gives her a chance to strut that little bit harder and spar with her band, who occasionally teeter on the edge of over-zealous but mostly ride the spectacle with conviction.
Her vulnerability between songs is striking, she speaks openly about identity, about carving out space, about the strangeness of sudden visibility. The field quietens.
'Good Luck, Babe!', 'My Kink Is Karma' and, of course, a rousing, rock-leaning 'Pink Pony Club' close out the set as confetti cannons erupt and the final notes ring out. At this point of the evening, it's less of a festival and more of a coronation.
It is tempting to romanticise the era of monolithic rock bands closing festivals behind walls of Marshall stacks. But watching thousands of young fans scream catharsis into the Queensland night under a glitter soaked sky suggests something else entirely. The centre has shifted. The spectacle has evolved. The devotion remains. We'll be okay!
— Ben
