Something is different about Upheaval. It's not so much the riffs that rattle your chest or the bands that set off the hillside, it's the individuals. The moment gates were swung open at Belknap Park this year, it wasn't simply a festival. It was a reunion. A reunion of the disillusioned, the devoted, the lifers who've been waiting all year to scream shoulder to shoulder with strangers who somehow seem like old acquaintances.

By 4 o'clock, black boots were already sending dust and mud flying into the distance. Homemade patches, sun-baked shoulders, sparkly tears and smudged eye liner, and sweat-stained shirts before the sun even dropped behind the hill. Everyone came to experience something real. And they did.

There were pits, yes. But there were hugs. Strangers were being wheeled out of the melee like war heroes. First-timers with glassy eyes in the midst of a Wage War breakdown. Old schoolers stuck up at the top of the hill for a crossfade with tears streaming down their faces. All different faces, but each one had worked hard enough to deserve to be here.

Rob Zombie turned the night into a horror-glam fever nightmare, in the light of neon hues and blowup mannequins walking the stage. It was as if you were in a film, surreal, booming, and not to be ignored. The other side had Falling In Reverse doing what they always do: gritty, precise, and maybe even slightly inflammatory. You hated it or yelled out every lyric. That's why Ronnie Radke is a spectacle, whether you enjoy him or not.

The Plot In You gave a raw, emotionally vicious set that cut through the rubbish. Landon Tewers' voice was like it was dragging years of pain behind every line. dark, bitter, and entrancing. For the faithful who came to feel gutted to the best possible extent, this was the set. No gimmick. No showmanship. Just all exposed.

But it wasn't only the giants who left their stamp. Scene Queen swiped the gory day with a sparkly-covered stage that combined sass and breakdowns into one massive cathartic fist with daisies in the air all around. Witnessing the crowd go from fury to an all-girl twerking ring in 10 seconds flat? Electric. Architects brought one of the weekend's most challenging performances—Sam Carter dictating like a storm, his voice capable of toppling buildings and lifting spirits in the same instant. Purely one of my absolute favorites.

Saturday faltered when the heavens burst open and emergency notices required a mid-afternoon evacuation. Yelawolf, whose set was the weekend's most hyped doozy, lasted only two songs before bad weather shut the entire operation down. But instead of running for cover, he hung around, observed in the parking lot, hugging fans, smiling, taking pictures, just being present. No stage. No mic. Just a guy showing up for the folks who had shown up to hear him. And let's be honest? That instant said more than an entire set ever had.

Now here comes Forge The Sun, Our Vices, and Mr. Denton on Doomsday, bands who played like they had something to prove and exactly what they had to do to prove it. They were not openers, but anchors. They showed up early and played as if they were included in the same sentence as the headliners. Fans were screaming for them like they were already stars.

There is no better feeling than seeing a Michigan band tear through their set in their own backyard. The pride in the pit? Unmistakable. Upheaval never forgets where it's from, and that's its magic.

When the lights went out on Night Two, nobody bugged out quickly. They stuck around. Mud stuck to skin. Humidity filled the air. Faces flushed and eyes wet. The hill was dotted with groups sitting quietly, leaning against each other like family after a long war. That's what Upheaval does. You go for the bands, but you're left with the feeling. The way a scream can set you free. The way a stranger's hand can pull you out of the pit and mean it.

Upheaval 2025 wasn't perfect. Sound issues came and went on the lookout stage. Some of the headliner choices were polarizing. The weather threw a wrench in the plans. But none of that mattered once the music began. What mattered was how it felt. Loud, messy, human.

This was not only a festival, it was a love letter to heavy music and a homecoming to the people who still believe in it.