LOS ANGELES, CA- For my fifth Ohana Festival, I changed almost everything about how I got there. I changed nothing about why I wanted to go.
For the first time, I did not stay in Dana Point for the weekend. Each morning, I drove down from Los Angeles. Each night, I drove home. Somewhere between those trips, I spent three days trying to hear as much music as one person could reasonably take in, with the occasional concession to food, merchandise and the practical business of being a human being at a festival.
The free trolley made the last part of the journey surprisingly easy. After figuring out the route, getting from my parking spot to the festival became one less thing to think about. That matters when you have already committed to repeating the commute three times. I wanted my attention available for what was happening onstage.
Ohana still gets that attention from me. Five visits in, it remains my favorite festival to attend, whether I am there as a fan or covering the music. I know enough about the experience now to arrive with expectations. I also know enough to leave room for those expectations to be rearranged.
The 2026 gathering ran September 25 through 27 at Doheny State Beach, marking the festival’s tenth anniversary. Its bill placed established favorites alongside artists whose names could easily have escaped someone coming primarily for the headliners. That breadth was central to what made the weekend work.
Several performances will receive individual stories in the coming days because of how deeply they affected me. Even a long retrospective cannot give every one of those sets the space it deserves. This is my account of the weekend as a whole: the discoveries, the reminders, the interruptions, and the moments when paying attention to the music became much more rewarding than simply recognizing it.
My notebook is uneven. Some performers inspired a page. Others left me with a sentence. A few names on the bill did not get a usable firsthand entry at all. I have used the performance record to fill factual gaps, but the reactions here are my own. There is a difference between knowing what someone played and remembering what it did to you.
Friday began with Eddie Vedder giving us a reason to appreciate where we were.
He reminded the crowd that other festivals around the nation had been affected by the weather, and asked us to count our blessings. He also spoke about an anonymous act of generosity: someone had bought him a piece of art he had admired. Before the weekend had really found its rhythm, its host was already talking about the good that people do for one another.
Then he picked up his ukulele and started to perform “Here Comes the Sun” before he had to stop and apologize for a little flub. From where I stood, the little restart was as memorable as the song. Something in the mix needed attention, Eddie laughed, and the performance resumed. There was no sense that a small mistake had threatened the occasion. Soon he had the crowd singing along.
That ease is part of what I associate with Ohana. The performers can be excellent without having to pretend that everything is frictionless. A laugh, a correction, another attempt: the audience was happy to follow him through all of it.
MUTTLEE gave the afternoon its first substantial jolt. In his introduction, Eddie described his longstanding enthusiasm for the band and presented the appearance as their festival debut. The singer joked that they could technically say Eddie Vedder had opened for them. It was a good line, made better by the fact that the band then gave us a reason to remember its own performance.
The music had a solid alternative-rock foundation with punk running through it. More than that, the band had a sense of purpose. The political and social concerns were explicit. I heard a call to build communities, an insistence that artists have an obligation to speak up, and a declaration of “Free Palestine.” Those ideas came with stage presence strong enough to keep them attached to the performance.
My notes also caught Eddie out in the crowd enjoying the set. Seeing the person who had introduced a band actually listening to it made his enthusiasm feel tangible. The recorded song list on setlist.fm identifies the cover I had left unnamed in my notes as Fontaines D.C.’s “Boys in the Better Land,” a useful connection to a band we would hear on Sunday.
I came away interested. That is a meaningful outcome for an early festival slot: a name on a schedule became someone I wanted to hear again.
Midnight Generation offered disco grooves with a little funk, and the music was undeniably fun. It simply was not quite what I wanted at that particular point in the afternoon. Three days of listening do not require three days of pretending every act meets you in exactly the right mood. Sometimes a performance fits the grounds better than it fits your own internal weather.
Mereba’s soulful music was a pleasure to just chill to in the early afternoon. There was something especially inviting about easing into the day with her sound before the louder performances ahead. Her set included “Kinfolk,” “White Doves,” “Black Truck” and Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song,” adding another dimension to a Friday that would move through punk, alternative rock and Maná.
The early disappointment was Florence Road. They were the band I had been most excited to see, and learning that their equipment had been stolen and their Friday appearance canceled was a real letdown. A festival offers plenty of alternatives, but anticipation is specific. I had wanted that band, in that slot, on that day.
There was a happier development later in the weekend as the band received a replacement Saturday appearance, with help from Eddie, the festival team and Fender. Eddie also made his own guitar available to singer Lily Aron.
Otoboke Beaver supplied an entirely different kind of lift. They began by apologizing that they could not speak English, then launched into music that made explanation feel unnecessary.
I love lyrics. I love being able to follow a thought through a song. But there are moments when what your body needs is energy, and in the midday heat this band delivered it with extraordinary force. The intensity came with humor and movement. They were funny without easing up, ferocious without becoming monotonous, and far more physically animated than many rock bands I see.
A proper mosh pit formed. At Ohana. I loved seeing it.
There was something refreshing about watching a band arrive with its own complete performance language and trust the crowd to meet it there. I did not need every word translated to understand the invitation. By that point, Friday had already given me two very different examples of what can happen when you pay attention to the earlier names on the bill.
Sugar was a different encounter for me. I came in without a deep familiarity with Bob Mould or Hüsker Dü, and the number of people clearly invested in the performance was immediately apparent. Their recognition exceeded mine. I was listening from the outside of a history that plenty of people around me carried with them.
I would rather acknowledge that than dress up a limited acquaintance as expertise. Part of attending a festival is allowing someone else’s enthusiasm to alert you to the homework you still need to do.
Courtney Barnett brought me back onto more familiar ground. It had been eight years since I last saw her at the Greek, and her set reminded me how much I appreciate her songs and the way she performs them. Familiarity returned quickly, without making the performance feel like a rerun of an old memory.
The late-afternoon light gave her appearance an unusual visual quality. Smoke kept moving through her frame, and the sun caught it until the area around the microphone could look almost completely washed out. At moments, Courtney seemed to sing from inside the brightness. It added a little mystery to a performer whose appeal, for me, has always depended on how directly she can make a song land.
Between Courtney and Bad Religion, I made time for a meal and paid a premium to try Eddie’s organic, dairy-free ice cream. My selection involved peanut butter chocolate chip and vanilla in an ice cream sandwich. It was pretty damn good. I cannot offer a profound musicological explanation for that purchase. Sometimes a festival memory is simply an expensive dessert you were pleased you bought.
Bad Religion provided the reliability I expected. They remain a band I can imagine fitting into almost any lineup that needs a serious dose of hard rock and punk conviction. When the singer asked how many people had seen them before, a substantial section of the crowd raised its hands. There was an existing relationship to work with.
“21st Century (Digital Boy),” “Punk Rock Song,” “Infected,” “A Walk,” “Generator” and “Sorrow” were among the selections. Eddie joined them for “American Jesus.”
The set felt aimed at people who had spent years with these songs. A modest mosh pit developed, its scale appropriate to the section of the audience I was watching. I thought the lead vocal microphone had some problems from my listening position, but that did not erase the familiarity or the force of the performance. There is a particular satisfaction in watching a band still deliver what you came to hear.
Billy Idol made that satisfaction considerably louder.
He came out in a spiked leather jacket, and a look around the grounds confirmed how many people wanted to see him. The recorded opener was “Still Dancing,” followed by a run that included “Cradle of Love,” “Flesh for Fantasy,” “77” and “Eyes Without a Face.” “Rebel Yell,” “Dancing With Myself” and “White Wedding” came later.
Steve Stevens deserves his own portion of that memory. His playing had authority and flair, and his excursion into the “Top Gun” theme was a pleasure. There was no difficulty understanding why Idol wanted to draw attention to him.
At one point, I could hear the crowd answering Idol’s calls from the other side of the festival. That was the moment my reaction became uncomplicated: he still had it. The scale of the response carried farther than my position in front of any particular stage.
And yes, taking off the jacket and then the shirt elicited plenty of cheers from the women in the crowd. He knew how to work the audience. So did the guitarist beside him. The familiar songs arrived with enough personality that recognition became active participation.
Maná was the performance I approached with a very specific wish.
Years ago, a woman I briefly dated explained “En el Muelle de San Blas” to me. That conversation sent me to the lyrics. I read the translation while listening to the recording, and the song took on a weight I had not previously understood. I had already felt something in the music. Understanding the story gave that feeling a place to go.
So while people around me recommended other songs, that was the one I wanted. I was waiting for the opening that would let me hear it here.
In the meantime, Maná gave me plenty to appreciate. Fher’s voice sounded remarkably close to the recordings: raspy, powerful and recognizable. From where I was listening, the vocal mix felt clearer than it had during some earlier sets. I could hear the details I wanted to hear.
The partial published setlist confirms “Corazón espinado,” the Santana collaboration I had vaguely recognized, alongside “Labios compartidos” and “Mariposa traicionera.” My own notes also caught “Me Vale,” “Rayando el Sol,” “Oye Mi Amor,” and a passage into Bob Marley’s “Get Up, Stand Up.”
A kind woman sitting beside me translated some of the between-song Spanish. Her help became part of how I experienced the performance. There were moments I understood through the sound alone, and others I understood because a stranger was willing to bring me along.
I never heard the song I had come hoping for. That was disappointing, though it also left me with an irony I could not ignore. A song about endless waiting, and apparently I would have to wait a little longer to hear it live.
Friday’s closing performance began while I was waiting in the merchandise line. Eddie’s voice reached me before I was properly settled into watching him, and the opening was “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town.”
The evening expanded beyond the advertised Eddie Vedder and Friends format. The documented opening stretch included “Far Behind,” a Glen Hansard tribute through “Song of Good Hope” with Simon Good, The Who’s “I’m One” with Billy Idol, and “Bee Girl” with Jeff Ament. During “Corduroy,” the curtain revealed Pearl Jam, with Abe Laboriel Jr. at the drums.
My notebook had described Pearl Jam as essentially joining him after a handful of songs. Looking back at the sequence gives that impression a clearer shape. What I had been experiencing as a growing collection of friends became a surprise band performance.
I started constructing a theory about Sunday. With the anniversary in mind, perhaps Pearl Jam would build the final night around Ten. It was the kind of prediction that seems plausible when you are excited and surrounded by people who know the catalog.
Then Friday’s “Even Flow” undermined the neat version of my theory. I did not mind. It rocked harder than I remembered, and I was more interested in enjoying it than protecting a prediction.
Somewhere after all of that was the journey back to Los Angeles. Then another morning, another drive south, and the next set of reasons to be there.
Saturday began with Jake Wesley Rogers, whom I remembered from a much more bombas performance at Outloudtic. I liked that earlier encounter. I liked this stripped-down version even more.
With an acoustic guitar and his voice at the center, I could concentrate on how he moved through a phrase, especially when he reached into falsetto. The presentation made room for the singer rather than asking me to process everything around him. I would happily listen to an acoustic album built around that approach.
Olivia Vedder joined him for the third song, identified in the performance record as “Pluto.” He also played “Broken Violins,” which he told us he had finished the night before. A lapse in the lyrics became something he navigated naturally, and the song still felt complete in the way that mattered to me.
He brought humor to the harmonica, too, with his SpongeBob Dylan joke. But the real reward came at the end, when trouble tuning the guitar led him to sing Dolly Parton’s “Light of a Clear Blue Morning” a cappella. There was nowhere for the voice to hide. It did not need anywhere.
The solution to the technical problem became one of the things I liked most about the set. Friday had begun with a restart. Saturday had begun with an abandoned accompaniment. In both cases, the audience got to watch someone make the moment work.
Eddie introduced Ellery Harper as well, bringing another young artist into the weekend’s extended musical family. Harper is Ben Harper and Laura Dern’s son, and I had spotted Dern on the lawn enjoying Jake Wesley Rogers earlier. “Stranger” was the song that stayed with me from his appearance. His set gave me another reason to appreciate arriving early: the chance to hear someone whose music I was still getting acquainted with, without mentally rushing toward the bigger names. After five visits, those opportunities remain part of Ohana’s appeal. I come with artists I already want to see, but I also want to leave with a few more names worth following.
P.E.S.T. brought the afternoon back to punk. This was Jeff Ament’s Montana-rooted project, and the recorded opening song was “Montana,” which resolves the geographical confusion I had scribbled down in my notes at the time.
There was no uncertainty about the tone. The band’s public announcement directed at Donald Trump was blunt, and the music had the energy to carry that bluntness. Eddie’s introduction connected the act to earlier appearances on the festival’s smaller storytelling stage. Watching it here felt like another instance of Ohana bringing part of its own extended circle onto a larger platform.
Marlon Funaki supplied solid pop-rock songs and good energy. I noticed Danny Clinch enjoying the performance, which added another small spectator moment to a weekend full of them. My notebook is brief on this set, but positive. Sometimes that is the honest scale of a response: I liked what I heard, and I was glad I stayed.
Alice Phoebe Lou gave the afternoon a softer landing. Her microphone initially created an accidental call-and-response routine as she asked whether we could hear her and the audience answered. She made the problem feel companionable while it was being sorted out.
Once the music settled, it seemed particularly well suited to this place and hour. “Only When I” and “Shelter” appear in the documented set, correcting my shorthand for the former. It was the kind of sound that made lying on the lawn with the ocean behind you feel like a perfectly good way to listen. Her joke about crowdsurfing all the way to the ocean matched the mood. I appreciated the breathing room she gave the day.
The Front Bottoms had a very different relationship with the audience directly in front of them. The younger fans I could see were going hard. The reaction itself told me how personally these songs had been taken in.
A small horn section came out for “Father.” The band joked about New Jersey beaches being as nice as Dana Point, and worked through songs including “The Plan (Fuck Jobs)” and “Au Revoir (Adios).” I could hear the emo affinities in the music, but I was just as interested in the crowd’s ownership of it. These were people who had arrived ready to answer back. Ohana had made room for their version of a communal singalong well before Pearl Jam would command its own.
Then Stephen Wilson Jr. happened.
My original note was simple: he was fantastic. I stand by the simplicity of that reaction.
The explanation leading into “Gary” mattered to me. He described that he had just met the coolest Gary he had ever met moments ago, a man with a mohawk, and made that person feel present in the song. Then he went into the crowd to play. He recognized people. He pointed out Gary. There was a specificity to his connection with the audience that gave the performance an intimacy far larger than its slot on the schedule.
“Year to Be Young 1994” was part of the set, and Eddie joined him for Temple of the Dog’s “Hunger Strike.” Stephen nailed Chris Cornell’s part, delivering the power and emotional intensity that make those vocals such a formidable undertaking. It was about as good a rendition of “Hunger Strike” as I’ve ever heard, and it left the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
That guest appearance was extraordinary, but Wilson had already earned my attention before it happened. His pleasure in being at this festival was evident. When he spoke about his dreams having outdreamed him, it felt like an expression of something we had watched him experience.
I love seeing an artist whose performance makes me reconsider how much of my attention I have been giving him. Wilson left me wanting more room, more time and another opportunity to listen. His set is one of the reasons individual stories will follow this retrospective.
Photographers were not permitted in the photo pit for Men I Trust, so I used their set to grab a bite to eat while staying within earshot of the music. It was a practical pause in a packed day, with their performance providing the soundtrack rather than disappearing from my afternoon altogether. Their set included “Tailwhip,” “Billie Toppy” and “Show Me How,” which closed the recorded sequence
Jon Batiste, by contrast, nearly outran my ability to keep notes.
During “Freedom,” he wanted more dancing and more movement, encouraging the crowd to bring the kind of energy he associated with home. He did not seem content to let enthusiasm stay theoretical. Bodies needed to respond.
The joy in the performance was infectious, but it had room for reflection. His treatment of Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down” slowed the feeling and let determination acquire a different gravity. The performance record confirms that cover, “Freedom,” “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and the closing “Für Elise” variation.
My notes caught medley passages, audience hallelujahs, keyboard playing, a horn, and a turn at the drums. I hesitate to pin every instrument to an exact name from a hurried visual impression. What stayed with me was how naturally he seemed to move among them, and how little the performance cared about the boundaries between jazz, classical music, gospel and pop.
His supporting vocalist met that energy beautifully. This was a performance in which enthusiasm could move from one person to another without dissipating. Batiste kept changing the shape of what we were hearing while preserving the feeling that we were all involved.
Few artists make social concern and unfettered joy coexist as fluidly as he did in front of me. The seriousness did not require him to extinguish the celebration. The celebration did not require him to forget the world outside the grounds. I left wanting to think longer about how he made that balance sound so effortless.
Saturday had been the warmest day for me, though still bearable. When the sunset arrived, it was beautiful. After hours of attention directed toward stages, I appreciated having a reason to look beyond them.
Alabama Shakes brought their own kind of fullness to that part of the evening. Brittany Howard’s voice remains an astonishing force, and the band around her gave it weight without making the sound feel crowded.
I remembered seeing them at the Palladium around the first album. I had not followed them as closely in the intervening years, but when “Hold On” began, the distance collapsed. Sometimes a song reminds you of your relationship with a band faster than you can explain it.
The performance paused during “Hold On” for what appeared to be a medical emergency, an interruption long enough to change the atmosphere. I later heard an unverified claim that the call for help had been a ruse to let fans move closer to the rail. If that was the case, it was not cool: exploiting concern for someone’s safety to get a better spot crosses a line. The song title offered an unfortunate irony as everyone waited. When the band resumed, the finish had all the force I had hoped to hear.
Earlier, Howard had spoken about people willing to risk themselves to protect their neighbors, and the hope she found in people taking care of one another. That sentiment stayed with me through the pause. It had a practical meaning inside a crowd, too. My strongest memories attach to the return of recognition and the generosity in Howard’s delivery.
Tyler Childers closed Saturday’s main-stage program, bringing me back to the first time I saw him at Luck Reunion two years earlier. I had gone into that performance expecting something mellow and left struck by how intensely he inhabited his songs. At Ohana, that intensity was still in his eyes, but he seemed a little looser and, dare I say it, more carefree. Perhaps the different selections changed the mood, or perhaps that was simply how the performance reached me this time. Either way, the ease suited him without diminishing his conviction. It was a solid finish to Saturday, and another opportunity to appreciate an artist whose live presence had already made a lasting impression on me.
Sunday brought more cloud cover and, over the day as a whole, welcome relief from the heat. I appreciated the comfort. I also missed the sunset that the clouds kept from giving us another version of Saturday’s view.
Josh Klinghoffer’s Pluralone set an introspective tone. Josh’s dry humor worked well in that setting. He joked about the band that had once backed one of these songs now headlining the day, and thanked everyone for being out so early while suggesting he would not necessarily have made the same effort himself.
He explained that some songs had been written for piano, which made these guitar versions something particular to the performance. The recorded set included “Carry,” “Across the Park” and the closing “Feels Like I’ve Done Wrong.
The lyrics in that last song hit me. Even in an early outdoor slot, with the day still developing around us, the set could feel confessional. Its restraint asked for a different kind of listening than the louder performances would demand.
I knew little about Villanelle when they started playing, but a couple of songs in, I wrote “has an Oasis vibe” in my notes. Then a fellow member of the press joined me and mentioned that frontman Gene Gallagher was Liam Gallagher’s son.
For the next few songs, I was embarrassingly pleased with myself. I kept showing my notes to anyone within earshot, pointing out that I had written the comparison before learning the family connection. It hardly made me a musical detective, but I was giddy that my ears had picked up on something. Juvenile? Yes. Fun? Absolutely.
Speed of Light’s appearance carried a different kind of history for me. I have been following this sibling trio for years, going back to their ferocious performances at Bands in a Barbershop, when they were still kids climbing onto benches and playing among the crowd. Even then, their enthusiasm and ability made me want to keep watching. I had recently seen them open for The Warning at the Fonda, so arriving at their Ohana set felt like another opportunity to check in with a band whose evolution I have been documenting for a substantial stretch of my concert-going life.
They sounded polished, and I was particularly struck by how their songwriting had developed. “Enemy” was the title I caught in my notes, but my larger impression was how comfortably they now occupied their material. That growth had already caught my attention at The Den Studios, where I wrote about their increasingly ambitious songs and the command they had developed as performers. At Ohana, I found myself appreciating how far they had come while still recognizing the energy that first pulled me toward them.
Watching that progress is one of the pleasures of following a band over time. Each appearance becomes part of a longer story, and seeing Speed of Light at Ohana gave this particular chapter some personal weight. They will definitely receive a separate article in the coming days. I have too much history with this band, and too much to say about where they are now, to leave their performance at a passing mention.
Linka Moja supplied an enjoyable midday set, with a sound perfectly suited to a chill afternoon at Ohana. I was happy to settle into the music and appreciate the easygoing mood of that part of the day. A Cranberries cover added a familiar touch to a performance that made simply hanging out and listening feel like time well spent.
Horsegirl made me smile for a different reason. Their deadpan encouragement for the crowd to dance sat against a relatively restrained stage presence, apart from the drummer. There was humor in that relationship between what they asked of us and how they occupied the stage themselves. It was a quieter personality than some of the weekend’s more demonstrative acts, and I enjoyed making room for it.
Ecca Vandal erased the distance between observation and involvement. I forgot to take notes because I was digging the performance and the music.
That is the most accurate review of my immediate response. Punk, rock and thrash intensity ran through what I was hearing, and the performance hit hard enough that documenting it temporarily felt less urgent than staying with it. I thought the vocal mix was off early on, then heard it improve. After that, my attention belonged to the set.
There are times when a thin notebook means a performance did not leave much behind. This was the opposite. I stopped writing because I did not want to keep looking away. She is another artist whose appearance deserves more space in the coming days.
The Format brought the pleasure of a reunion into the afternoon. Nate’s enthusiasm about being back was evident, and “Leave It Alone (Till the Morning)” was the vocal moment that jumped out at me. He really wailed on it. “Holy Roller” and “Dog Problems” also landed in my notes, and all three appear in the documented sequence.
The attraction of a return is not simply the chance to say you were there when it happened. You want to hear some present-tense reason for the band to be onstage together. That vocal performance supplied one for me. Really great to see Nate fronting a band again.
Rilo Kiley gave me another reminder of how good Jenny Lewis can sound. “The Moneymaker” and “I Never” were among the songs that held my attention. Then a medical emergency changed the set.
From where I stood, the repeated calls for a medic seemed to go on for roughly ten minutes. I was not timing the response with a stopwatch, and I cannot describe what the emergency team was doing outside my view. I can describe the concern I saw and the delay I felt as the band kept trying to get help to someone in the crowd.
It was the most troubling part of my weekend. Loving this festival does not require me to smooth over that observation. In the moment, it did not feel like the response was reaching the person quickly enough.
The lengthy interruption occurred at the end of “Silver Lining” and the band returned for “With Arms Outstretched.”
I appreciated the band returning for that final song. I also carried the interruption with me. Both reactions belong in an honest account of the day.
Before Pixies, Eddie asked how many people were returning Ohana attendees. The response was substantial, and he made clear how much that return meant to him. I was one of the people he was talking about. Five visits give you enough history to recognize the familiar parts of the experience. They also give you enough evidence to know whether there is still something new happening inside them. He then gave the most glowing introduction to band he holds in the highest regards.
Pixies opened it up “Gouge Away,” “Debaser,” “Head On” and “Isla de Encanta.” Then, Eddie joined Pixies for “Wave of Mutilation,” fulfilling what I’m sure was a bucket-list item for Eddie.
By Sunday, Eddie’s appearances across the weekend had accumulated into something more than guest spots. He introduced artists, listened to them, sang with them and made room for them. Watching him take part in a Pixies song fit a pattern I had been noticing since Friday afternoon.
Fontaines D.C. gave me another personal point of comparison. I first caught them at SXSW, and hearing them now made the evolution in their sound feel substantial. I was listening with that earlier encounter somewhere in the background, aware of how far their musical world had expanded.
Grian Chatten’s Dropkick Murphys shirt caught my eye, though I cannot assign a particular meaning to it. The set itself provided firmer ground: the published sequence moved from “Nabokov” and “Boys in the Better Land” through songs including “Favourite,” “In the Modern World” and “I Love You,” with “Starburster” closing.
That early song also connected back to MUTTLEE’s Friday cover. A piece of music I had heard through one band’s enthusiasm returned through the band that made it. The weekend kept offering those small connections if you stayed attentive long enough to catch them.
Pearl Jam’s Sunday appearance began by making room for someone who was absent. A video remembered Glen Hansard through Ohana performances and moments around them, and the band followed with “Long Road.”
That opening gave the final set a different weight. The weekend had contained so much activity, but here was a reminder that a festival’s history includes the people who helped give it character. Remembering Glen was part of recognizing what this gathering had become.
Then the music kept moving. “Even Flow” returned, happily unconcerned with whatever tidy anniversary theory I had once entertained. “Wreckage” gave me a song from the more recent part of the band’s catalog. The relationship between those selections felt natural in front of an audience ready for both.
Eddie joked about his hearing after someone shouted toward the stage. Then an “I love you” reached him perfectly well. His selective-hearing joke was a small, funny exchange inside a performance operating on a much larger scale.
Billy Strings joined him for “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town” after Eddie told the story of Billy playing the song in an elementary-school talent show. Billy also lent his supreme guitar skills on a cover of Neil Young’s “Throw Your Hatred Down.”
I liked what that introduction did to the song. Friday, I had heard it while waiting for merchandise. Sunday, it arrived carrying someone else’s childhood relationship with it. A song can belong to a band and still acquire a different personal history in every person who keeps it.
“Jeremy” was one of the moments that made me put an exclamation point in my notes. “Black” moved a little more quickly than I personally prefer, but the audience singing in place of Eddie supplied the part of the experience I value most.
I love those passages when the performer can ease back and the crowd knows what to do. You hear how much a song has been lived with. It is hard to manufacture that response. The people around you have brought years of listening into the same few minutes.
Abe Laboriel Jr. received his own acknowledgment. Eddie thanked Paul McCartney for letting the drummer sit in, and directed the “Better Man” sentiment toward Abe.
By then, the sense of people making this weekend happen together was difficult to miss. Musicians, guests, returning fans and the voices coming back from the lawn all had a part in how the evening sounded.
“Alive” closed the main set. It did not close the festival.
Pearl Jam returned for a three-song encore: “Setting Sun,” “Rockin’ in the Free World” with Billy Strings back among the participants, and a shortened “Yellow Ledbetter.” That last song was the final musical destination, after the enormous release of “Alive” had already given the main set its conclusion.
There was another drive to Los Angeles waiting for me. After three days, I had no need to pretend the commute was part of the entertainment. But I had spent the weekend collecting reasons it had been worth making.
Some of those reasons were expected. Bad Religion delivered. Billy Idol commanded a crowd. Courtney Barnett reminded me what I had missed. Alabama Shakes brought an earlier part of my listening life back into focus. Pearl Jam gave thousands of people songs they were ready to sing together.
Other reasons were the ones I could not have planned quite so neatly: MUTTLEE turning an introduction into an interest, Otoboke Beaver giving the afternoon a necessary shock, Jake Wesley Rogers making a tuning problem into a vocal showcase, Stephen Wilson Jr. making me want to follow him much more closely, and Ecca Vandal making me forget to write.
That is what I appreciate about the people programming Ohana. The smaller names are worth arriving for. I have learned to leave room for the possibility that someone I know little about will give me one of the performances I most want to discuss afterward.
Five visits in, I still recognize the pleasure of being here. I also still get to discover it. Next time, I may stay in Dana Point again. I may make the drive. Either way, I want to be there early enough to hear whoever comes on first.
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Ohana Festival 2026 Review: Five Visits, Still My Favorite
