Review: Convenanza 2025 – A First-Timer’s Confession

Sure, we’ve reviewed this gathering on the site before many times – by the great Tim Murray – but the inevitable nerves induced by finally committing to this were calmed somewhat when a couple of ‘kids’ in their early thirties – one of whom builds beautiful wooden arches at a festival we run and who possessed that peculiar confidence that comes from having NTS on tap since adolescence – basically frogmarched me onto a flight to Toulouse. “You’re coming,” they said. “Stop making excuses.” That and the fact that Tia Cousins was closing the festival. Turns out, said friend and Tia had colluded to get me out there but I won’t dwell on that deception for long. Usually, even the faintest whiff of being told what to do by someone so much younger would have me marching in the opposite direction, but I sensed something was different here, so I left my hang ups at the door and entered with all the positivity I could muster. This is quite a thing for me at the best of times…

Disclaimer. Said Arch friend who colluded with Cousins was inked to write this review as he a far superior scribe than I but given you can’t rely on the kids, you’ll have to settle for my take this time around.

So in we go.

The weather gods had decided to mess with the entire outing – September in Carcassonne normally sees decent temperatures around 25°C during the day, dropping to 14°C at night, but 2025 had other ideas. We got properly cold – the kind of cold that makes you question your festival wardrobe choices at 3am when you’re still wearing a t-shirt like an optimistic…Britisher.

Here’s the thing tho: it was brilliant. Yes, there were still plenty of silver foxes who’d clearly been coming since the Weatherall days – the sort who bang on about everything sub-122 BPM and have opinions about every Lord Sabre-related production. But there was also a noticeable influx of younger heads, kids who would’ve been in primary school when Andrew was still with us, now confidently dancing to the same kind of ethereal majesty that he championed. The energy was shifting – fewer ‘knowing nods’ between ageing ravers, more Gen Z confidence, whatever that is.

The cold too gave the whole weekend a different energy; less sweaty abandon, more focused intensity. Dancing in the Château Comtal, an actual medieval fortress, while actually needing layers, felt strangely appropriate. This wasn’t some pop-up festival experience; this was proper. The central courtyard – dubbed the Temple of Gnostic Sonics – has these absurd acoustics where the ramparts bounce the bass back rather than letting it disappear into the night. Bernie Fabre calls it “the most incredible nightclub”, and for once, the hyperbole felt justified. Space and setting certainly play a major influence on the music here, and it’s hard to believe anyone surrounded by this spectacular medieval topography would fail to be inspired by it.

Heavily aided by proper French wine that didn’t taste like it was out of a box that had been sitting in the sun or the type of natural shite that tastes like cider that all ‘that lot’ love, the mood started to turn. This moderate joy elevated when Trystero took to the stage. If you don’t know the name yet, file it away for later – this is a band operating on a different frequency entirely. The performance was a masterclass in tension and release, all prowling basslines and angular rhythms that shouldn’t work together but somehow do. A shuddering rumble reminiscent of a Weatherall bassline echoed off 800-year-old stone, and suddenly the cold air felt like part of the design, sharpening everything into focus.

Then there was Lena Willikens and her two Music’s Not For Everyone sets – the one where Andrew would play oddball oddities as the venue started to fill, which was a proper statement of intent. If you’ve ever wondered what it sounds like when someone throws music in a blender, slows it right down and serves it up with a side of fearlessness, this was it. Lena’s passion, as we all kno,w is for in-between sounds and the experimental, and watching a crowd of varying ages all collectively warm up for the evening’s proceedings, both nights to genre-agnosticism was genuinely an amazing way to start the evening. Industrial clangs bleeding into Balearic drift, krautrock meeting Italo in a dark alley and deciding to have a proper chat about polyrhythms.

Guided by one of my more capable companions and whatever the kids had been generously sharing, we stumbled into the night and the base of the ramparts. The vision was blurry, and our cohort member George tried to climb the walls – not something anyone should condone. Sitting at the bottom of the battlements, the medieval city lit up above, and the rest of the city stretching out in front of us felt like something out of a fever dream, the bass from the courtyard still vibrating through stone that was already ancient when electronic music was inconceivable. I had a moment. The kind where you understand why Andrew co-founded this festival with Fabre back in 2013, before his untimely death left a Weatherall-shaped hole in the universe. For a moment – just a moment – I understood why people think certain places are special. Watching other similarly enhanced souls (the kids, my kids!) having their own moments of transcendence, grinning at each other with that knowing “we’re all in this together” expression, felt like church for people who don’t do church.

The lineup featured as ever A Love From Outer Space with the great Sean Johnston, who always takes over Friday night’s headline slot each year and ledged it as ever, Vladimir Ivkovic’s masterclass in holding down the tempo to open proceedings on the Thursday night in Bar à Vin was very special, David Holmes bringing God’s Waiting Room to the daytime of said bar of wine on Saturday, Dame Area, Holy Tongue and Al Wootton. Some can hold their breath in this kind of musical depth longer than others, but thankfully, there were moments to surface and appreciate the surroundings.

Between the music, there was food, proper food, not festival food. This being France, even a rave in a castle comes with decent culinary standards. Cassoulet served by someone’s grandmother, who looked mildly horrified by the music emanating inside, but approved of people eating properly. Oh and bread that actually tasted like bread. The act of feeding yourself properly gives way to the very humble notion of surrendering to the reality that you’re not twenty anymore, resonating not just in the body, but in the general attitude, making late-night excursions a more sustainable proposition.

The real moment tho – the one that justified all those years of convenient excuses – happened on Sunday night at Bar à Vins. Tia Cousins describes her sound as “booky noises, percussion and le doof doof”, you might have heard of her. For four hours, she took a room of sweaty, emotionally drained survivors on an absolute journey. Bar à Vins has been hosting Convenanza closing parties since at least 2018, tucked into Carcassonne’s medieval streets, and watching Tia work that outdoor space was like witnessing someone who genuinely doesn’t give a shit about what you’re supposed to play at midnight on a Sunday.

Anyone can own records, but putting them together to form a cohesive whole for a body and mind experience is another entirely different thing. Creating an environment without overwhelming, she pitched things perfectly without ever tipping into pretension. The younger crowd were absolutely here for it, and the older heads – myself included – were forced to confront the fact that maybe, just maybe, the kids are alright.

By the time we stumbled out into the September night, reflecting on what had just occurred, I was sufficiently juiced and finally feeling like I understood what this was about. This is the kind of existential exhaustion that only comes from dancing in a medieval city for four nights straight. I got it.

Fading ephemeral memories of deliriously wandering the battlements, the mysterious atmosphere of this medieval corner of France never ceased to amaze. The faithful are now beginning to welcome those who’d discovered Weatherall via YouTube algorithms rather than buying ‘Screamadelica’ on release (me!). Maybe this was because everyone was too cold and too enhanced to care about hierarchies. Or maybe because the whole point of this place was always about moving forward rather than the guarding of yesteryear.

The exceptional hospitality and genuinely superb curation did well to ensure that, despite my years of convenient excuses, I never felt like an interloper. This isn’t just a festival, it’s a pilgrimage for people who still believe that music can transport you somewhere else. That curation matters, that there’s value in the strange and the esoteric. In a world of pop-up festivals that appear and disappear like mayflies, Convenanza endures because it understands something fundamental about carrying forward a spirit, rather than replicating a formula.

Andrew would have approved. He always said it was about the future, not the past, even if some of us needed younger friends to drag us along and show us the path.

Same time next September, then.