Tucked away on the breathtaking Swedish west coast, Gothenburg’s world-beating Way Out West is in contention for the best festival experience in Europe. What makes it so undeniable?

I’ve never really got the grips with the whole eclipse thing. So it goes dark for a second, and what? Yet on Wednesday 12th August, the whole of Britain and further afield seem fixated on this one particular very special, very rare occasion. Eclipse content litters Instagram stories with people flexing their ability to sit in a dusty park during London’s blistering heatwave, drink lukewarm cans and own a colander. Apparently, such a total eclipse hasn’t happened since 1999, and won’t again until 2090. 

I can’t muster the thought to truly care, though. I’m sure it’s very monumental. Shame I’m sitting in a windowless boozer in Stansted Airport. Is there anywhere better to be on a sunny Wednesday afternoon? Now it might surprise you – as I’m sure you know by now that I’m a Wetherspoons advocate – that I’ve opted for the airport’s rival establishment, The Camden. It’s quieter, and I need to work. I find a homely corner and nestle for a singular pint. There’s not long left until take-off.

Oops, it’s ten minutes until gates close; I’d better saunter on out. But wait – confusion. The board tells me to relax. I thought I was already relaxed? 

20:00? Isn’t it supposed to be 19:00? Every damn time, Ryanair. How do you sleep at night? Honestly. 

We’re delayed. And so there’s only one thing to do. Only one place left to go.

Tim Martin, I’m home! Caught in your glorious cesspit. 

Eventually, the gate is up, and I’m in the priority queue for a flight to Gothenburg. I’ve never been to Sweden before. I’ve heard it’s all attractive people and expensive pints. Talk about juxtaposition.

I board, drawing the short straw – middle seat. The driver apologises for the delay, saying he doesn’t even know how long we’ve been delayed. Everyone else does. He doesn’t even sound sincere. Fuckin’ Ryanair. 

A two-hour flight across the North Sea gives ample time to look ahead to what is on my horizon this week. Way Out West, a Swedish music juggernaut. Every year, one weekend in mid-August, all of the biggest and best artists on the festival circuit that summer head to Scandinavia and take it in turns popping between countries. Last year I attended Oslo’s Øyafestivalen and had a compellingly civilised time. There’s also Flow Festival in Finland, which I’m yet to tick off. But I’ve heard through the grapevine that WoW is the pick of the bunch. It certainly boasts the line-up, one of the strongest of a European festival in 2026. 

Eventually, the plane grounds in the western Swedish city of seafood and ships, multiple hours later than when it was originally supposed to. I meet the rest of the press party and jump in a cab to our temporary resting place, a gigantic hotel, Scandic Gothenburg Capital, which just manages to steer clear of tacky while being colourful. Up to my room, I crash out immediately. 

The next day I’m up relatively early, heading down for breakfast. The variety of the buffet is impressive. Hot, cold, meats, cheeses, fruits, breads. Shame my performative pescatarianism means I can’t try the country’s most synonymous dish, the classic meatballs.

We are scheduled for a walk around the city with the tourism board this morning, but I’ve sadly got to zip out some emails, so instead I rendezvous with the group for lunch. The 30-or-so-minute walk to the restaurant is very pleasant, a first chance to have a look at Gothenburg. My bike-friendly route is on the waterfront, with military and old-timey ships alike anchored near the shore. The weather is mild, warm with a gusty breeze. 

Lunch is some traditional fish dishes, tasty bread, and even some pickled herring, which I bravely try and is actually quite tasty. We then wander over to the city’s Soho House, which has a rooftop area overlooking the city (and a pool, but alas I don’t have any trunks), for a cheeky negroni to wet the whistle before the music ahead. 

It’s about time to head into the festival. Taking place in Slottsskogen Park, a charming, expansive green summit overlooking the port-side city, the grounds are large, with charming bodies of water weaving between woodland areas and larger open fields. The structural set-up makes use of the space astutely, with stages hidden away among groves. The VIP area, constructed around a house and restaurant, is sophisticated even for the premium zone, with cosy waterfront decking, a palm reader tent, and a bar with all sorts of liquid delights. I, parched, naturally opt for a local lager. 

The first music I see is courtesy of the peerless US rap duo Clipse on the Flamingo stage. Fresh from last year’s seminal album Let God Sort Em Out and five ensuing Grammy Award nominations, Pusha T and Malice get the crowd on side with ease, flicking through older staples and newer anthems alike, boasting a stage presence of bravado and self-assurance. 

Next, on the other main stage, Azalea (which is directly opposite the Flamingo stage, allowing attendees to simply turn around, walk a matter of metres, and wait barely 10 minutes for the next major act to begin), is British cult favourite pop star Lily Allen. Another artist who made a major comeback last year with her break-up record, West End Girl, the 41-year-old’s set is as much a theatre performance as a festival show. It’s the album, front-to-back, with dramatic embellishments included throughout. Phone calls, soliloquies, and even tears. It’s impressive, although it would’ve been nice to hear some of the Lily classics. 

I leave a tad early for the Linné tent for French enigma Oklou. Yet another with a critically adored 2025 album – one of the year’s best, choke enough – the highly talented experimental artist graces the stage with an ethereal effervescence, sometimes light and elusive while other times commanding and dominant.  

Zara Larsson is next. Of course, warranting the biggest crowd of the weekend, with it being the current queen of pop’s homecoming show. I’ve only recently seen her in Madrid, though, and will again at All Points East very shortly, and so I take some time to get a nibble (a hallomi burger and fries; everything is veggie, woo) and to check out the DJ stage, suitably named Dungen. DJ Boring is spinning absolute grooves. I have a blissful solo dance. 

I return to the group for Moby, whom I also recently saw in Madrid, but it was worth checking out again for the mid-set moment when he celebrates his veganism with a terrifically odd montage of cows, pigs and other wildlife. The sentiment is, I’m sure, pure, but the video itself is downright hilarious. In more impactful fashion, he also dedicates his first-ever breakout hit, “Go”, to his “best friend”, the late David Lynch. The track samples Lynch’s Twin Peaks’ iconic theme tune. 

The xx are today’s headliner, but I saw the back half of their set at Primavera Sound, so instead I go for some more dancing at HAIVAI B b2b NORAH at Dungen. As the clock approaches midnight, the on-site music ceases, and instead spreads into venues around the city, suitably coined ‘Stay Out West’. We’re spoilt for choice, with The Alchemist, Thaiboy Digital, Ninajirachi and Earl Sweatshirt all appearing in venues around the city. 

My priority, though, is My New Band Believe, the latest endeavour from ex black midi bassist Cameron Picton. The 400-ish capacity room is relatively full despite the late-night competition, and Picton and co are electric and eclectic, putting the excellent tracks from the self-titled debut album to good use. A perfect end to the evening, as beers pile up and bed calls. 

Awoken with a slight grog and New Music Friday to tackle, I wallow on my laptop until midday-ish, before shaking off the previous day’s scaries, showering, and heading out to meet a couple of pals at the Irish Embassy. It’s a pub, not the headquarters for The Emerald Isle’s diplomacy in Sweden. Although I’m certainly feeling ambassadorial after a couple of pints of perfectly creamed Guinness. 

I’m back at the festival just in time for my beloved Geese. After their stormy Primavera showstopper, I’m full of anticipation. They’re on at Linné, the same stage as Oklou yesterday, and by 15 minutes before the set, the covered stage is absolutely heaving. The press group is already located deep within, and so I jink my way through the punters and find my people with barely minutes to spare. 

Every time I see Winter and his merry band of winged instrumentalists – this being my fourth time – they’ve grown as a band, and he imperiously as a frontman. A Jim Morrison second coming. The songs sound sharper and more cerebral at each passing strum. The crowd is a little dry though. I must look a little crazy to this polite bunch of Swedes, who mainly nod their head and clap modestly throughout the show. I’m screaming and jumping. When in Geese. Absolutely biblical. 

I grab a beer and a breather in the VIP area before wandering over to Fcukers. The duo are lively to say the least. Dance-driven sleazy mania of the highest ilk, the growing crowd goes ballistic for the Ninja Tune-signed New Yorkers’ unique and upbeat energy. Worth the hype, to be fair. 

I get a bit of grub (the exact same again, I don’t know why, I’m tipsy and a creature of habit) and then tuck into Four Tet. And cor, what a feast. Kieran Hebden is undoubtedly one of British electronic music’s most significant names across the last 25 years, and it shows with an effortlessly effective set that gets even the slightly timid crowd moving and cruising. I’m at one with the music, dipping in and out of the satisfying and frequent drops, exploring the mind palace in between.

I go catch a smidge of the ever superb Rochelle Jordan before settling in for The Cure. Now the band is obviously legendary, and I’m a big fan and respecter of their work, but… it is a long, long set. I’m a little past the climax of my excitement, which came early with Geese and Fcukers, and this two-hour show is somewhat of a slog. It’s a bit drowsy. I have a running theory that no festival set should be over 90 minutes, and this feels an adept example. I’m ashamed to have left early and missed the five or six classics. But sometimes that’s life, you know. 

I’m a little tempted by Honey Dijon at one of the late-night venues that is close-ish to the hotel, but instead think better of it and opt for an early-ish night ahead of the final day of music. Godnatt!

I’m up for breakfast, and soon out of the hotel on a group trip to an outside sauna. Now anyone who knows me knows I am a passionate advocate of the wonderful wooden box of heat, and so I am in my absolute element. In the sauna, into the freezing but gorgeous open water, in and out, in and out. There’s even a platform, some five metres high, to dive into the water from. I’m in heaven. I leave feeling like a million dollars.

I head into the festival one last time just as Irish geezer Kettama is spinning absolute filth on the Dungen stage, so I go and enjoy that for a while, before grabbing a beer and getting a prime spot for the one and only Ezra Collective. The London jazz collective are one of the best live acts on the planet, one whom I’ve seen countless times but would happily see every week if they played. It’s simply impossible to leave there feeling anything less than ecstatic. If someone says they don’t like the EZ, it’s because they haven’t seen them live. 

In the mood now, I float about at Maribou State for a bit, but it doesn’t really kick-start the creative juices, so instead priorities beers and await the big one. Gorillaz, my muse, my everything, our cover stars. While The Cure’s two hours felt a bit pedestrian, for me, Damon and co’s goes the opposite way. They could play all night, and I’d stand there and watch. The third time I’ve seen them this summer, all three have been a visceral, personal experience. 

The music has finished, but we’ve got a swan song on site at the festival grounds, finding a secret dance tent in the VIP area that serves cocktails. Spicy margs all round and a rousing boogie. 

Everyone else is heading to bed, but I’ve got a final mission. To see the best young British band on the planet. I get the wrong tram back into town (excellent transport service though), and have a mini odyssey to make it to the venue in time. And by God I run. I dash through the cobbled streets with only one thing on my mind. WESSSTSIDEEEE COOOOWWWBOOOYYY. 

There’s a little queue, but I’m in just in time. The room is absolutely full to the rafters, but I squeeze in, a final lager in hand, ready to chant back every word for these four young Mancunians. Speechless. It Goes On.

The next day is a little rough. A late-morning airport transfer before a slightly delayed flight (fucking Ryanair). Worth it though. Way Out West has the diversity of line-up, flawless organisation and artistic philosophy to rival any festival I’ve ever attended in Europe. At around £275 for a three-day standard ticket, it’s not the cheapest (although not the most expensive either), but it feels impossible not to enjoy it. Much like its contemporary in Oslo, this is sophisticated freedom. Skandinavien, jag älskar dig. Tack!

Words – Ben Tibbits