When asked how old I am, my response usually falls somewhere along the lines of, “Physically 24, but spiritually 35.” In an effort not to sound pompous, I should preface by stating that I have nothing against my generation—save for the fact that we generate new slang terms at a rate I ceased trying to keep up with long ago. I simply tend to gravitate toward people, music, and culture that skew more Millennial than Gen Z. So when granted the opportunity to attend Just Like Heaven, I all but shed a tear for my 15-year-old self, who spent countless hours curating indie and alternative playlists that would send the pop-leaning locals in her small town into shock.
“Just Like Heaven? More like Just Like Hell,” exclaimed Dustin Payseur of Beach Fossils as he graced the stage—an accurate simile on the singer’s part, given the oppressive 98-degree heat that had descended on the day of Pasadena’s beloved indie festival. Being the weather app-frequenter that I am, I approached the day somewhat aware of what I was getting into. Though nothing—I repeat, nothing—could have prepared me for the dry, sweltering, punitive heat I would soon face. With thoughts like “Did I apply enough SPF?” and “Why didn’t I invest in a portable misting fan?” circling my mind as I made my way from the parking lot toward the entrance, I slowly grew more and more anxious about the day ahead.
This anxiety was slightly eased upon my entrance to the venue, as I heard the soothing, mellow sounds of Wild Nothing beginning their set at the Stardust stage. Surveying my surroundings, I had one thing and one thing only on my mind: finding shade. Problem was—so did every poor soul in attendance. The sight of heat-stricken folks seeking respite in the few pockets of shade they could find—beneath trees, picnic tables, and sound equipment booths—was incredibly sobering.
Peter Bjorn and John served as a morale booster. The Swedish band performed Writer’s Block, an album they released nearly two decades ago. Their performance of “Young Folks” left nary an audience member still—the crowd danced and whistled in unison to the song they might have rioted over had it not been played. The seminal track, like many others performed at this festival, brought back vivid memories of bus rides home from school, gazing out the window, and feeling like the misunderstood protagonist in a coming-of-age film.
Sandwiched between Beach Fossils and Grouplove was The Sounds—a band I’d not heard of prior to JLH. An unexpected turn of events left the group without their lead singer, Maja Ivarsson, who was reportedly barred from re-entering the country due to “visa issues.” Shiny Toy Guns’ Cara Faye sang vocals in lieu and was warmly welcomed by the crowd of fans she inherited on a day’s notice. As someone who has never had the pleasure of seeing the original band live, I thought Faye performed as well as any understudy could, and kept the energy alive despite the circumstances.
Soon after, I bee-lined straight to the Orion stage to catch Perfume Genius. “Thank you for braving the heat,” said lead singer Mike Hadreas. “We have no other choice,” thought everyone. Hadreas put on a pleasant show, offering laid-back energy that was much needed at 3pm—the day’s peak temperature. It was around this time that I began to grow peckish. Perusing the various restaurant booths, I spent a decent amount of time weighing my options—by price and portion, of course—and felt like a stockbroker analyzing their ROIs. Prices ranged from $18 to $30, as anticipated for music festivals—guess the anti-capitalist ethos so heavily associated with indie/alternative culture draws the line in this department. I ended up settling on a single burger from IRV’s that ran me $19, including tip. “When in Rome” I suppose?
I then made my way back to the Orion stage to catch The Drums, who performed against a visually mesmerizing technicolor backdrop. Though I was seated for most of their set—riding out a burger-induced fatigue—their 2009 hit “Lets Go Surfing” brought me back to my feet, and forced me to rejoin the crowd and thrash away. One couldn’t help but acknowledge the sheer beauty of the moment—a crowd united not just by their love for the bands onstage, but also by their shared suffering under the 95-degree Pasadena sun.
Soon after came TV On The Radio, a band I had the pleasure of being introduced to on this very day. It was easy to spot their cult followers amidst the crowd, mouthing and singing along to every lyric of their favorite tracks. The band definitely made use of their literal platform, repeatedly chanting “Free Palestine” and “Fck these fascist fcks”—to which a fellow comrade in the crowd replied, “Which ones?”
“Can you belive you woke up in a world today, where the bar for humanity has been set so fcking low, that saying no to genocide can have you deported from the Unites States of America,” said Kyp Malone with the Palestinian flag on his guitar. “Holy sh*t! What a fcking sh*t show. Sh*t show! I just wanna say, free Palestine! Free Palestine! Free Palestine!”
Resigning myself to the golf course bunkers for a catnap on the grass, I could hear Bloc Party shredding in the distance. Their lively, one-hour set was the longest of the day so far—much to the chagrin of no one. Lead singer Kele Okereke’s powerful, resonant vocals etched a sonic memory I’ll forever keep. Nearby, I watched adorable kids frolic about with their matching noise-canceling headphones. It was touching to see the range of generations present at the festival: little ones with their Millennial parents, Millennials with theirs—sharing glimpses of their pasts with one another.
As the sun began to set and temperatures dropped, a renewed spirit of elation swept the crowd in an almost palpable way—and in perfect timing for Empire Of The Sun’s transcendental set. Lead singer Luke Steele cycled through several outfit changes, each essential to the songs that followed. Delivered against a trippy, trance-like backdrop, their beloved indie sleaze anthem “Walking On A Dream” felt exactly as the title suggests.
Afterward, I embarked on my fifth and final trek to the Stardust stage—a journey that, on any other day, would’ve been manageable, but due to the temperature felt like trudging through the dunes of the Mojave Desert—to catch Los Angeles sweethearts Rilo Kiley. Marking the band’s third performance in seventeen years, this was certainly not one to miss. Despite their years-long hiatus, the band appeared comfortable on stage, engaging with the audience as one would a friend—“You guys are smoking so much weed right now… I feel like there’s more weed than there’s air…smells good,” remarked vocalist Blake Sennett. The crowd was anchored in awe, counting themselves lucky to be witnessing a return so monumental as theirs. Couples and friends alike swayed to the light drums and gentle strings of familiar favorites, “With Arms Outstretched” and “I Never.” I ended up making the conscious decision to flee their closing performance prematurely in order to secure a decent spot at Vampire Weekend—a choice that, in the moment, felt like my own personal trolley problem.
As the headlining band greeted the crowd with “Mansard Roof,” they set the tone for the next hour—one filled with nostalgia-fueled euphoria. At last, we had made it—the final stretch after what felt like a hard day’s night. The widely adored band played a generous mix of early hits as well as a handful of tracks from their 2024 album, Only God Was Above Us. Isabel Hagen accompanied Vampire Weekend on the viola, her solos on “A-Punk” and “Unbelievers” unlike anything I’d ever heard, creating the most enthralling arrangements I witnessed all night.
At around 10:40pm, fifteen minutes before the festival was due to wrap, I was faced with yet another painful dilemma. After a day of note-taking, schedule-tracking, and video-capturing, my phone’s battery had reached a dangerous two percent, and I had to decide if staying for the entire set was worth running the risk of my phone dying—rendering me unable to locate my car using the location pin I had dropped on my GPS upon arrival. I chose to err on the side of caution and jet early—a decision I quickly came to mourn and will soon come to regret, as I heard the great Ezra Koenig begin to cover Tame Impala’s “The Less I Know the Better” while backing my Prius out of the stadium grounds.
All in all, my time at Just Like Heaven was nothing short of euphoric. While the heat occasionally bordered on unbearable, it couldn’t diminish the joy of witnessing the bands and acts that once shaped the soundtrack of our lives. Despite the truth in Dustin Payseur’s opening remarks, the festival ultimately lived up to its name—casting a momentary wave of catharsis over the crowd, and accomplishing its assumed objective: to transport us to a simpler time through music.
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