Image source: When The Horn Blows | Copyright: James Kirkland Photography
Let me set the scene: I’m two cans deep, neck-deep in Neck Deep, and halfway through a sweaty two-step when my waterproof flies off like it’s trying to escape the lifestyle. Fair. I clock it disappear into the pit…a tragic but noble end.
But the gods of Slam Dunk giveth. Not long after, I spot it on the floor. Salvation! I rescue it from the mud like it’s a baby on the motorway. I cling to it. I parade it around. I make a scene.
Except it’s not my waterproof. It’s a pair of damp, visibly soiled leggings.
I had lovingly cradled someone’s abandoned festival trousers like they were a lost family heirloom. I’m not saying that moment changed me, but I haven’t known peace since.
The Bands: Absolute Scenes
Stray From the Path
I love these guys. Hardcore fury in its purest form. No messing about. The crowd was one giant middle finger to the establishment and I was very much here for it. If you didn’t come out of that set angry at capitalism and nursing a minor injury, were you even there?
Graphic Nature
Like getting punched in the head and thanking them for it. Brutal, glitchy, delightfully unhinged. Crowd was small (due to some rather rude overrunning) energy was not. Felt like a therapy session for people who express feelings exclusively through walls of noise and elbowing strangers (if I could do this in the office, I would).
Neck Deep
They had us all by the throat within the first note. Pop-punk perfection. Every lyric hit like a punch in the teenage heart. Crowd was one big, beer-soaked therapy circle. By “December” I was crying in my pint and making plans to re-download MSN Messenger.
Electric Callboy
The musical equivalent of someone doing ket in a laser tag arena. They came out like Eurovision on bath salts and had the entire tent acting like they’d just freebased Monster Energy. Outfits, pyro, synth-core madness. Fully unhinged in the best way possible. You don’t just watch Electric Callboy, you experience them and emerge a changed person, possibly with glitter in your ears (or your arse crack). Bring on November.
A Day to Remember
Still the kings of making you cry, then immediately giving you whiplash. One minute I’m belting “All Signs Point to Lauderdale” with a grin, the next I’m having a full-blown emotional reckoning to “If It Means a Lot to You” in the middle of a mosh pit whilst pulling toilet paper out of my hair. Beautifully unhinged.
Now, onto the waterproof incident…
Let’s break this down:
- Enter pit, full of optimism and IPA.
- Waterproof yeets itself into the ether.
- Spot what I think is it. Feel triumphant.
- Clutch mystery item like it’s the One Ring.
- Realise, 30 minutes later, I’ve been holding a damp, skid-marked pair of leggings.
- Quietly discard it behind a bin and contemplate never speaking again.
You think you’re tough until you’ve snogged the abyss and it smells like someone else’s arse.
Slammy D-ebrief
- Weather: Schizophrenic. Sunburnt at noon, damp goblin by 5.
- Drinks: £8.90 for a pint of pisswater but I’d pay it again tomorrow.
- Toilets: Post-apocalyptic. Genuinely saw a lad leave one and say “I’m a different man now.”
- Food: None. Vibes? A-plenty.
- Fashion report: Battle jackets, Crocs, one guy dressed as the Cookie Monster, me in shame.
Final Thoughts
Slam Dunk 2025 was loud, muddy, nostalgic, and mildly traumatising. A glorious mess of broken voices, skinned knees, and shared trauma set to the soundtrack of our collective youth. Exactly what the doctor ordered (if your doctor is also a Neck Deep fan with a nicotine addiction).
Would I go again? Without question.
Would I zip-tie my waterproof to my body next time? 100%.
Would I still end up crying over pop-punk with mascara on my teeth? You bet.
Cc: You in the Pit 
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