Besides a variety that surpassed most international rivals, with bands of such a high calibre that they guaranteed attendees returned home with an unexpected new favourite band, Left of the Dial fulfilled most of the criteria of a great festival any music fan has, especially with its unique buzz. There was also the interesting venue choices, clustered together in convenient pockets of the city, as well as the type of draws unseen at other festivals, from a daytime edition of the festival to secret venues selling cheap shots. If another festival exceeds its hype more than this one, then that will be a great day for culture.
The first day began with an immediately fond first impression. Performing pre-opening day when the homegrown talent was exhibited, Netherlands quartet were assured winners of the hypothetical ‘most likely to be your new favourite band from the entire festival’. Not only did they feature a member of exalted indie band Lewsberg, they were just an incredibly unified, symbiotic group. Despite almost every track revolving around the same core elements of high-fretted, repetition-driven guitar riffs and bass which interlocked like an intriguing jigsaw, this quickly became a strength, segueing into each other seamlessly, with a few quirky tricks up their sleeves to distinguish each one. Malentendido began the set by striking up immediately catchy riffs – the bass and lead guitar intriguingly intertwined – lyrics about cold rooms and a strolling pace, lulling the full room into adulation. Where the first few tracks cantered at a mesmerising pace just above mid-tempo, the third sped up to mimic bands like the Au Pairs reverently, even when their skilled bassist’s glasses fell to the floor, ably assisted by their vocalist. They then continued its sugary Talking Heads groove before a noxious, deceiving false end, generating applause and slowing the riff down to an almost comical, woozy, but rhythmic strut.
Re cuerdo featured rolled r’s and other coarse, entrancing non-lyrical vocals that both echoed and distinguished themselves from David Byrne. This would have been enough to make it one of the festival’s most memorable performances, but the song also had their best cyclical riff.
closed out the day of native artists with an uncompromising, hedonistic set at Rotown. Wielding high tempo dance music as strong as their frontman’s crowd hypnosis, their relentless beats and trippy synths grew to a dizzying scale before you knew they’d begun. The same sneakiness was true for the lineup as, surreptitiously, the band’s synth member and snare drum and bongo player were joined by a third percussionist on a full drum kit make a threat that rivalled the Fall’s mighty drum sound This was the type of rhythm that marched with the same poise and ferocity for a full song, its agitated beats clamouring between club music and post-punk groove. Their lithe, sometimes-possessed, otherwise captivatingly vacant-eyed singer matched this intensity with Ian Curtis arm movements, mic wielding, and conductor-like thrusts into the crowd. He then dropped into the crowd, became lost in the haze of arms gathered tightly at local bar Rotown during a track which held a swing rhythm across their effervescent synths – breaking from the rest of the set, which was like one long orgiastic song.
The enormous V2 was able to convey the full effect Manchester’s had on the packed crowd, as well as the incredible acoustics and the band’s engaging physicality. This was in spiteof it being only the first time the no-wave skewing post-punks had left the UK to play. Due to the percussive, vital force of frontman Ed Whirledge’s lyrics and vocals, however, using dramatic slashing arm movement with the ‘then it hits’ from and fatalistic wrist to forearm slashes later, anyone would think they were European gigging veterans. The frontman’s presence may have been enough to seal their crowd-drawing ability, but the call-and-response in this opening song’s percussive blast, drums beckoning brass in harsh waves that were almost as percussive, also worked in their favour. Although their discordance was more present in the second track’s melodies, the fourth track was less no wave and more Windmill wave, as they moved nimbly towards Black Country, New Road theatrical arrangements, scaling the notes of the sax and trumpet in glorious cycles, paving the way for massive, dramatic drops. The dramatic passion returned as Whirledge inhaled the lyrical and expressive spirit of Tom Waits for the “be a real go getter…trendsetter” phrase.
crammed themselves and their many fans into the Sahara venue, an intimate, club-type venue that added tension to their malevolent music. They opened by contending with Brainbombs and Badbrains for speediest, noisiest punk band. Their erratic cowbell-laced percussion and atonal guitar was wholly their own, however – as was the sight of their vocalist’s shaggy head bobbing up and down between the crowd. This – and the wiry, stuttering, and sporadic vocal shrieks that littered the next track – was an extreme precursor to the wildest moments of their set, as their frontman began a fraught crowd surf while the band played on with further abandon.
The aforementioned atmosphere around Sahara was most apparent while orbiting the space between this band and the next – being among a vibrant clutch of bars, neon-lit signs and fellow festival venues Annabel and Salsability, this labyrinthine combination created a hub of buzzing activity during the walk to find Bristol’s Foot foot at the latter.
This was among the festival’s most visually striking venues – more horizontally spacious than it was vertical, the room was brightened with Middle Eastern lamps in one corner and people in the rest. Even so, the four-piece were a memorable selection for the venue, drawing eyes with their often fascinating playing and down-to-earth charm. Their first track wandered between prettiness and abrasiveness with a similar level of authenticity as Still House Plants, sporadic beats and jerking strings providing a sense of exciting direction. Their aforementioned charm was on display between tracks, where they regaled the tale of how they were late to the festival, describing their transport woes and gaining then losing lorries’s slipstream with the whimsical ease of talking to a close friend. Following that, the band countered each other in another intricate battle as bassist Ethan went back and forth between notes and violinist Sam locked into descending repeats towards a crunch of distortion. Meanwhile, vocalist/guitarist Esther’s stray vocal aah’s and high fretwork pour extra heat on the orchestral jazz, accentuating The Ex-esque drama of the track.
One of many hyped-up Leeds acts to grace Rotterdam’s stages, ’s folk made for an impactful international transition. Although early songs in the eponymous singer-songwriter’s set were met with rapturous applause from the full room at the Arminius church, partly thanks to the subtleties of the keys emphasising the main melody, it was ‘Daffodils’ which really stood out. As well as its lissom melody and vocal performance, the synthesis of acoustic, vaguely classical guitar, the cymbals’ ambient echoing and succinct guitar soloing, formed its startling emotive crux. The penultimate song had a spectacularly meandering outro, the keys growing in prominence in the finale as the same band member moved to a stunning saxophone performance while the rest transitioned from sparse playing to a graceful stop.
had five shows at the festival, steaming with unrivalled volume and articulate krautrock technique at most of them. At Uniek, the first track used suspenseful slow drops but the second song, Doldrums, Doldrums, Eviler Than The Devil countered the sludgy heaviness by ending with an atmospheric lap steel guitar. They burst into an early song without ceremony, The Moral Compass of a Self-Driving Car, with a pummelling noise rock foray and shoegaze tremolo haze following, generating so much force that a water bottle fell from a stage monitor. A long, gauzy tremolo pattern sealed the Galaxie 500 aura of fourth song Two Hoarders, an intricate krautrock jam elevating the song’s final half.
New to this writer, and perhaps many local Left of the Dial fans, nevertheless had massive success in courting the crowd at the arty De Doelen venue. Despite being pinned as an indie band, they had a nearly overwhelming variety. While Heavenly wheel, its searing chorus an outrageously poetic highlight, was art rock at its peak, frontman Leith Towers leapt into the next track using the two handed mic grip and air-bound pressure of Henry Rollins, joined by an emphatic punk beat from the drums and guitar. While the same song was partly Black Flag in its rhythm and bass-heavy tone, guitarist László Reynolds waved instrument across his mic and amp to illustrate the Sonic Youth-type avant-garde side. From relatively good distance, this howling feedback was practically tangible, as was the gutturral shouts from the same actor, echoing the lead vocals with added filth.
Before their set had begun, Brussels duo already satisfied the live music fan who prefers chance and authenticity over perfection. They were immediately afloat with manic energy, their ceaseless laughter foreshadowing the gig’s manic energy. The band’s jerking, arrhythmic pace was just one part which fit their description of ‘The Fall meets Bananarama’, bassist Mien Heyvaert often performing vocals at a loose distance from the mic, a descendent of Mark E Smith’s ingenious mic antics.
The duo’s third song included a sincere tribute to the Fall figurehead himself, wonderfully absurd lyrics about eating sandwiches, and unpredictable melodies on wooden bowls and glockenspiel. Though the crowd needed no further encouragement, lyrics such as “densdensdens”, from the titular song, did indeed cause feistier movement. They also bridged the gap between their experimentalism and the similar vocal hooks effectively used by cumgirl8 and Los Bitchos. Noise-pop squeals and retching sounds were both sampled and live, quirks that added to the unusual rhythms, hilarity, and the skill to make instruments out of non-instruments already seen with the percussion – dance-inducing greatness and fascinating invention is incredibly rare to find on Mek’Dr’Dr’s level.
, between their grandiose avant-garde folk, also had some heavy moments – the ones, tempered by eerie builds, where they really excelled. This included the once-in-a-lifetime sight of seeing multi-instrumentalist shred on a banjo, bending strings and shaping distortion like a rural Jimmy Page. First though, the duo foreshadowed their performance with a complimentary Nico track before beginning their show proper by switching between husky whispering and jolting screams. Sitar-like sounds emerged from the banjo and sampler engimatically. The bewildering performance finished when a cassette and vinyl joined forces to create a ghostly version of turntablism, emitting a warbling, echoing, mysterious transmission.
The only band this writer witnessed that cause a snaking queue and one-in one-out procedure, were both more fragile and more barnstorming than usual, due to concurrently kindling their third album and being on their sixth consecutive show. Whilst the previously mentioned adjective makes the usually pugnacious four-piece sound more terrier-esque, it was in fact more nuanced, the only source of fragility being Freddie Vinehill-Cliffe’s slightly weathered voice. The wear and tear, however, only made their fan-favourite songs take on an interesting new angle, the subtle Ian Mackaye throatiness suiting the Fugazi vibe they sometimes wink towards, alongside Steve Myles’s typically dynamic, inescapable drums. Their affable frontman’s humour was deployed to sarcastically painting the crowd as guinea pigs for enjoying tracks that will eventually form their new album. Good Boy and other bombastic slices of classic Thank were mammoth crowd-pleasers, but it was the new offerings that totally stunned. Not only were the lyrics a new angle on their characteristically sardonic, wordy yet snappy satire, the songwriting was refreshed and the synths’ minimalist techno blast – especially due to Rotown’s sonic excellence – felt utterly huge. Having seen them a few times over the past year, their Left of the Dial appearance felt like the first sighting of a new, weirder version of Thank.
As well as hosting the best new names in the experimental music realm, the festival also chose brilliant indie-adjacent acts. These were bands capable of winning over genre-agnostic gig-goers – while cracked into an internationally accessible approximation of The Kooks, filling out the Arminius Church with cathartic emo choruses, crammed in sufficient experimentation to fit alongside their indie, a brutal extent of feedback contrasting the vocal harmonies.
Boasting outrageously fun, incomparable extra-curricular activities outside of its main events, bands on boats and buses most notably, Left of the Dial retained its status as one of the best festivals of modern times – it’s no wonder so many people mentioned 2026 being their sixth or seventh time and 2027 being their next.
