CLICK HERE FOR ALL THE OHANA FEST ARTISTS WE CAUGHT!
DANA POINT, CA- I know I’m not the first person to write about “Ohana”; not as a festival, but as an idea. The word itself, Hawaiian for family, has been worn smooth by overuse, invoked by every publicist and artist since Eddie Vedder first brought this gathering to Dana Point in 2016. And yet, as I walked back through the gates of Doheny State Beach for the 2025 edition (my first time since 2019) I couldn’t escape it. Ohana wasn’t just the festival’s name; it was the atmosphere, the attitude, the invisible glue holding everything together. It was the look strangers gave each other when a lyric landed just right. It was the sound of waves breaking just behind the main stage, steady as a heartbeat.
I remember 2019 vividly: the old layout, the diagonal split between the two stages, and the constant negotiation it demanded. You had to make choices back then: darting from the Main Stage to the Tiki Stage, hoping you didn’t miss too much of one band while trying to catch another. It was a kind of musical triage, exciting but exhausting. But now, the stages now sat side by side, like siblings sharing a secret. It was a small but profound shift: a festival literally aligned with itself. Standing dead center between them, I realized one didn’t have to move at all to experience an entire day of music. The crowd could flow instead of fracture. That architectural decision, I thought, felt like a metaphor for Ohana itself. No division. No hierarchy. Just connection.
Friday afternoon began gently, with sunlight spilling across the Pacific and the smell of salt carried in the air. Makua opened the day with a sound that felt born from the sand itself: fluid, atmospheric with just enough bite to get the blood moving. Akira Galaxy followed, shimmering and textural, layering synths that sounded like reflections. Watching her guitarist dig into the music as his hand bled was a subtle statement about the power of music and giving the unfamiliar crowd something to remember. Their sets were short, but they built a musical foundation that invited people to settle into the day.
By the time Deep Sea Diver took the stage, the energy began to shift. Jessica Dobson’s voice carried both restraint and intensity, the kind that makes you feel like something honest is happening. Hinds arrived not long after, all smiles and nerves, having flown in that very afternoon. I thought I could see it on their faces: relief, maybe disbelief, at the crowd and the warmth of the reception. I’d always liked their energy, that mix of chaos and joy. Watching them that day reminded me how much I missed live discovery: that instant connection between performer and crowd that you can’t replicate through a screen.
Then came Kim Deal. Just her presence felt like lineage. It was a reminder of the women who built the scaffolding of alt-rock before the world had hashtags for empowerment. Stereophonic followed with an arena-ready swagger that fit surprisingly well against the coastal backdrop, their melodies punching holes through the sea air. Lukas Nelson then took the stage with Americana warmth. He was joined on stage for his first song, a Pearl Jam cover of “Just Breathe”, by Eddie Vedder, which left everybody, including myself, pretty damn giddy.
But it was Garbage who drew the crowd tighter. When Shirley Manson walked out, the temperature shifted. She’s one of those artists who doesn’t perform so much as embody the music… and she did it again here, magnetic and grounded all at once. Mid-set, she turned toward Eddie Vedder in the wings and said, “You’re the kind of rockstar I can respect,” before bowing “in piety,” half joking, half reverent. She also told a story about how the lead singer of Stereophonics had treated her with kindness decades ago, a gesture she never forgot. “We remember the people who made us feel seen,” she said. Then she pointed toward the side of the stage and laughed, “And Karen O’s over there distracting me.”
In that moment, I looked out over the crowd and noticed Kim Deal and the women of Hinds standing shoulder to shoulder in the audience, singing along like fans. It felt like a conversation across generations. Women honoring women, no ego, no posture. Just Ohana.
As twilight rolled in, Kings of Leon took the stage, and it felt like a full-circle moment. Eddie had talked for years about wanting them at Ohana, and finally, there they were, filling the air with that southern-fried rock catharsis that sounds built for beaches and open skies. Their set hit hard but felt strangely intimate, a family band among family. When they launched into “Sex on Fire,” even the photographers (… ahem… coff … coff… me…) behind the barricade were singing along.
Then came Eddie Vedder and the Earthlings: Chad Smith on drums, Chris Chaney on bass, Josh Klinghoffer on guitar, Andrew Watt on guitar, and Glen Hansard on guitar. The chemistry was immediate. Smith broke into a drum solo stitched from famous grooves: one part homage, one part inside joke. You could see him grinning even as he pummeled the kit. Vedder, ever the storyteller, moved between social reflection and humor, speaking about catching his first wave at Doheny when he was twelve… about time… about belonging. Then he said something that hung in the air like salt mist: “I identify as an Earthling.” The crowd erupted, and when they eased into George Harrison’s “Isn’t It a Pity,” it felt almost like a benediction. For a moment, every voice and every crash of the tide were the same sound.
Saturday morning rose softer, hazy, the kind of light that makes the Pacific look endless. Alain Johannes opened the day, introduced by Vedder himself, who sheepishly confessed he’d been up too late drinking with Glen Hansard and was “a little worse for wear.” The crowd laughed, and Alain, ever graceful, played under the bright Saturday sun. His set was a masterclass in stoic intensity, and I couldn’t help but be enthralled. Chaparelle followed, sunny and melodic, blending folk and country textures that fit perfectly with the afternoon air. Then David Duchovny stepped out, the most unexpected… to me… performer of the weekend. There was something charmingly human about it: the actor-turned-musician facing the sea, clearly aware of the novelty but leaning into it.
Mid-afternoon brought one of those small Ohana miracles you can’t plan. During Mon Rovia’s set, as they played “Dusk,” a couple near the rail got engaged. The crowd noticed, then the band noticed, and the lead singer shouted, “Love wins again!” and the whole place cheered. People hugged strangers. That’s the thing about Ohana: the music never just stays onstage.
By mid-afternoon, Mdou Moctar had turned the beach into something otherworldly: like a slice of the Sahel transplanted to the Pacific. His guitar lines were serpentine and alive, each solo stretching time a little thinner, pulling the crowd into a trance. Margo Price followed, glowing in the late-day light, her voice cutting through the humidity with both grit and grace. When she mentioned that one of the songs was co-written with Billy Strings, it felt like a passing of the torch: country and soul braided together, raw and real. Then Royel Otis came in with a much-needed reset, a cool gust of melody after the afternoon heat. Their hooks were bright and breezy, and when the crowd started batting around giant pink beach balls during “i hate this tune” and “moody,” it felt like the tide itself had picked up the beat.
By late afternoon, Tedeschi Trucks Band gave the weekend one of its deepest musical breaths. Derek’s glass-bottle slide sang like a sermon while Susan’s voice carried that ragged, soul-drenched edge that makes every lyric sound like it’s lived a life. The whole band moved in waves, swelling and receding like the tide just a few yards away. Then, in classic Ohana fashion, Eddie appeared, guitar in hand, and joined them for a fiery cover of The Who’s “The Seeker.” You could feel it ripple through the crowd: a shared reverence for musicianship, for lineage, for sound that means something.
As golden hour settled over Doheny, someone near the front of the Tiki Stage began handing out Progress Pride flags, and by the time Rainbow Kitten Surprise walked out, dozens of them were waving in the breeze. It was one of those quietly perfect moments of solidarity: music and identity in lockstep. RKS leaned hard into the emotional whiplash they do best, stretching from near whispers to full-band confessionals that hit like thunder. The whole field sang with them. It felt like the heart of the festival had found its rhythm again, recalibrated around community and color. And just before Hozier, Leon Bridges took the stage, radiating velvet-soul calm. His groove was effortless, his hips loose, his band impossibly tight. It was the kind of sunset set that feels pre-tuned to the Pacific itself. T
When Hozier took the stage later, his set became cathedral-like. His voice filled the open space, reverberating off the Pacific. But it was his backup singers… their harmonies soaring and swirling… that turned the performance transcendent. During “Take Me to Church,” they made the air itself seem to shimmer. Truth be told, it was song that I had fallen out of love with… but hearing it live was literally otherworldly.
Between acts, little moments reminded me what Ohana really meant. Someone onstage had a birthday, and the crowd broke into an unprompted chorus of “Happy Birthday.” No one told us to do it; it just happened. People danced barefoot in the sand. Security guards smiled. The whole place breathed in unison.
Sunday arrived tired but glowing. People moved slower, but the air still buzzed.Sunday started off with a personal revelation: Skating Polly. Their set was sharp, feral, and honest. Proof that punk still had something vital to say. The Criticals brought garage-rock immediacy. Lambrini Girls followed, bringing fury and politics in equal measure. Their singer launched herself into the pit, screaming truths that made some in the crowd uncomfortable, which, in punk terms, means they were doing it right.
The Chats took over like a fire alarm. Eddie had reportedly tried to book them for years, and when they finally hit the stage, they made up for lost time. Midway through a cover of KISS’s “I Wanna Rock & Roll All Night,” a shoe went flying across the pit, and the entire front section howled with laughter. High Vis followed: taut, urgent, more melodic but no less intense. Before launching into “Mind’s a Lie,” the singer shouted, “Don’t let anyone tell you what punk is.” It landed like scripture.
And then, right in the middle of the afternoon, Vedder returned once more as Amanda Reckonwith, this time carrying the weekend’s emotional center. He looked relaxed, like someone playing for friends.
Vedder joked “Who books an acoustic set on punk day?” he laughed. “Oh right… that was me.” He and Glen Hansard performed “Falling Slowly,” their voices melting into each other as the ocean went pink behind them. When they finished, Vedder announced that Ohana had just received its third Global Music Festival Award. He looked over at Hansard. “Do you have one of those?” he teased. When Hansard didn’t answer, Vedder grinned. “No, but I have an Oscar.” The crowd roared. They closed with “Big Hot Sub,” half earnest, half playful, and a small reminder that even sincerity at Ohana carries humor.
Then James brought a kind of unhurried grace that no other act could have delivered. Tim Booth danced, all angles and fluidity, his body tracing invisible chords in the air. His voice sounded ageless, still brimming with melancholy and light. When they played “Laid,” the crowd’s response was instant and unanimous; thousands of voices rose, tangled together, carrying that iconic chorus out toward the surf. There was nostalgia in the air, but not the hollow kind. This felt like memory reclaimed, reanimated, shared. Watching Booth smile as the audience drowned him out, I thought, this is what Eddie means when he talks about family. Connection not as sentiment, but as sound.
Then Wet Leg took the stage. Their set was breezy and irreverent until a medical emergency stopped the music cold. Without hesitation, Rhian Teasdale halted the song and called for help, waiting until medics reached the fan before continuing. When they resumed, it felt heavier, holier. Later that night, as Cage the Elephant played their blistering set, a streak of light suddenly carved across the sky, a SpaceX launch. The crowd gasped, and frontman Matt Shultz looked up, grinning, as if the universe had joined the encore. It was one of those moments you can’t script.
Then Green Day closed the book. Billie Joe Armstrong strutted across the stage, power chords ricocheting off the surf. Mid-set, he dedicated “Do You Wanna Be My Girlfriend” to “all the LGBTQ fans out there,” and it felt like a ripple of inclusion spreading across the sand. By the end of “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life),” Vedder walked out, hugged Armstrong, and smiled. Two frontmen, two eras, one family.
Standing there, I realized how carefully Vedder had built this weekend; not just as a lineup but as a living ecosystem. Legacy acts beside upstarts. Punk beside folk. Activism beside joy. It wasn’t just booking; it was storytelling. As Rolling Stone observed in their coverage, Ohana “feels less like a festival and more like a reunion- an intergenerational conversation about what rock still means.” I couldn’t agree more.
Everywhere I looked, that conversation was happening: in the crowd where parents hoisted kids on shoulders during “Better Man”; in the pause that followed Wet Leg’s emergency. Ohana is not an aesthetic; it’s a behavior. It’s the instinct to care, to share, to make room.
By the time the final notes faded, I didn’t want to move. The crowd slowly dissolved into the night, but I stayed rooted, listening to the Pacific keeping its own rhythm in front of the festival grounds. The lights dimmed, and the tide carried fragments of sound back into itself. It struck me then that Ohana isn’t something you attend. It’s something you return to; like family, like memory, like the ocean itself.
When I left Doheny, sand clung to… and in… my shoes, sweat salt dried on my skin, and the music still pulsed in my bones. I felt the same mix of exhaustion and belonging that I imagine everyone else did. That quiet recognition that we’d shared something rare. In Hawaiian, Ohana means nobody gets left behind. Maybe that’s why Vedder’s festival feels different from all the others. It doesn’t end when the amps go silent. It lingers in the laughter between strangers, in the echo of a drum solo, in the simple act of standing still and letting the sound wash over you.
Six years ago, I chased the music. This time, I let it find me. And in that stillness, I realized Ohana had been waiting for me all along.
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CLICK HERE FOR ALL THE OHANA FEST ARTISTS WE FEATURED!
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