Mosswood Meltdown
Mosswood Park, Oakland
July 19-20, 2025
Photos as credited
There are music festivals, and then there’s Mosswood Meltdown—a full-throttle, glitter-bombed, punk-infused party that no city but Oakland could pull off quite like this. Held at Mosswood Park, this year’s festival—hosted as always by the charmingly outrageous John Waters—was a deliriously fun, two-day explosion of sound, style, and crowd surfing.
As usual, the lineup was stacked with cult heroes and underground legends. Saturday’s headliner, DEVO, did exactly as you’d expect—whipped it good. Donning their iconic energy dome hats and industrial futurism flair, DEVO delivered dystopian irony and mechanical grooves that reminded us all that being weird is its own revolution.
Setting the stage for DEVO, The Osees, known for their blistering psych-punk onslaughts, sent the audience into a frenetic frenzy, inspiring some of the most unique crowd surfers your seasoned punk writer has seen of late. Oakland’s eclectic style was on full display as pin-up girls rocking vintage polka-dot rockabilly vibes and cat-eye glasses surfed alongside brown-skinned girls with afros and a character who looked like a mischievous Gold Rush prospector, even managing to strike a few poses mid-surf.
Prison Affair brought their energetic mutant punk all the way from Barcelona, while Exploding Hearts gave us punk rock romantic nostalgia tinged with razor-edged power-pop. Up-and-comers Snooper entertained the crowd with aggressively silly egg-punk (and puppets), while Bleached offered sun-soaked indie pop befitting of the perfect summer weather.
NIIS shredded their way through a grunge-punk set that featured songs reflective of the current climate, like “Fuck You, ICE.” Gentleman Jesse mellowed the vibe with melodic pop-punk, and Oakland’s Diesel Dudes revved up the audience with masks, wigs, and sweat.
Sunday’s vibe was no less electric, with Bratmobile—the riot grrrl pioneers—headlining with feminist ferocity. Their energetic set felt not just like a concert but a call to arms for self-expression, community, and rebellion. It was raw. It was loud. It was the only time I’ve ever seen anyone crowd surf while riding a unicorn rocking chair.
Sunday also featured Oakland’s own Shannon & The Clams, who returned this year with their retro doo-wop surf-punk. And La Luz, the psychedelic dream pop group comprised entirely of women of color, were a surprise standout of the festival. At once feminist and feminine, they cast a hypnotic spell over the crowd with ethereal harmonies and reverb-soaked guitar.
But as epic as the festival lineup and performances were, at least some of the crowd would’ve been there regardless, just to see the legendary John Waters host. Presiding over the entire weekend with his signature perverse wit, it is, and has always been, Waters that gives Mosswood Meltdown its unique flair. His irreverent and wickedly funny introductions were once again a highlight of the festival. He was the glue that held the madness together—and the glitter that made it sparkle.
But John Waters and a stacked lineup weren’t all that made Mosswood Meltdown shine. The festival drew a crowd that was a patchwork quilt of Oakland’s subcultures—punks, queers, goths, parents with strollers, aging rockers, fashion anarchists, regular anarchists, and indomitable style. This wasn’t Coachella and a sea of influencers angling for brand deals. This was gritty, grassroots, and gloriously non-conformist. The crowd itself emerged as a radiantly beautiful expression of art, and the community vibe was inclusive and refreshingly unpretentious. Nobody was trying to be cool—they already were.
And I couldn’t help but notice how even when scantily-clad femmes crowd surfed, it appeared that their bodies were handled with so much respect. It’s a rare thing to see such wild freedom paired with deep care, and that’s what made Mosswood Meltdown feel as much like a family reunion for the freaks as a music festival.
Mosswood Meltdown has always been more than a party—it’s a celebration of Oakland’s myriad subcultures, where music serves as both rebellion and refuge. We came, we raged, and we left with our hearts full and our eyeliner smudged—mission fucking accomplished.
