Gov Ball 2025: A Deadpan Comedian’s Hilarious Recap of Every Act
Imagine queuing for hours in the sweltering sun only to realize you’re surrounded by humans who paid double just to stand in their own sweat puddles—that’s Gov Ball 2025 for you. As a self-appointed critic with zero dance moves and nine sarcastic comments per minute, I navigated three days of Fortnite-style stages, artisanal cold brews, and more wristbands than a swap meet.
Day one kicked off with The Strokes, who strutted onstage like they’d just parked their vintage guitars in a Brooklyn loft and forgot to page us. Their setlist felt as familiar as your dad’s dad jokes—comforting if you’re into that sort of thing, maddening if you paid $300 for novelty. Sure, “Reptilia” still bangs, but so does my head against the barricade every third chorus. (Source: Pitchfork’s glowing review of nostalgia tourism.)
By midday, Charli XCX arrived to “transform the main stage into a glittery rave,” she claimed. Witnessing thirteen dancers in neon spandex flail around a pop princess felt like being in a Tumblr fever dream—minus the fun. Her crowd-surfing attempt looked more like a controlled fall; cheers erupted as if she’d just discovered teleportation. (Source: Billboard’s backstage buzz.)
On day two, Kendrick Lamar dropped lyrical bombs heavy enough to make you forget your back-and-forth hydration saga. He delivered “DNA,” which sounded as tight as the security line I waited in to pee. Irony alert: at one point he paused for a “real quick bathroom break,” proving rappers and puny mortals share bladder issues. His backup dancers moved in unison—possibly to distract us from his five-minute solo headphone adjustment.
Evening’s surprise guest, SZA, floated onstage like a question mark in human form. Her voice soared so effortlessly that birds might’ve migrated early just to photo-op. But between each soul-bearing ballad, she told the crowd she’d “just flown in from Jupiter,” which felt accurate given the astronomical ticket price. If vulnerability was a superpower, she’d have us all sobbing into our overpriced tacos.
Closing day three, Billie Eilish induced a collective head-tilt by whisper-singing through a megaphone. It was either avant-garde or laziness—I couldn’t decide, and neither could half the crowd. Some people swore she was “reinventing pop,” while others suspected a bad soundcheck. Meanwhile, a troupe of LED dancers behind her looked like glitchy Windows screensavers.
In the three installments of “who booked this,” we saw everyone from indie breakout acts to legacy headliners giving their all—possibly too much. Yet each performance carried that distinct festival scent: sunburn, spilled beer, and existential dread. So there you have it: live music in 2025, more polished than ever and still mildly chaotic. Tune in next time for more overpriced nostalgia and questionable life choices.
Sources: Celebrity Storm and New York Post, Pitchfork, Billboard
Attribution: Creative Commons Licensed
