PAPER Survived Barcelona's Biblical Primavera Rains

“This is fucked,” my friend said. She had to raise her voice above the torrential rain. I watched her fish out a Camel Blue from her bag and delicately shield it from the elements. There’s nothing worse than a soggy cig. “Do you have a lighter?”

“No, but I’ve got a…”

I knew the second we peeled off from the group to try the portaloos we’d lose everyone. No phone signal between the two of us, rain thrashed down over Barcelona like a biblical curse I’m not too sure any of the night’s festival-goers deserved. I think hedonists are at their best behaved at music festivals: spirits are high, substances are kind of rationed and the power of live music is so euphoric it establishes its own micro-society social contract.

And, on top of it all, one is dancing in a random field – in the case of Primavera, a parking lot slotted between the highway and the beach. It’s an industrial wasteland that comes alive in the black hours after sunset, when neon lights illuminate the soul like a hyper-branded Euphoria fun fair. You’re with your mates and you can’t believe your luck. It’s a beat of continuity between the cavemen of our shared history and the childhood in one’s personal memories.

None of that was present on the first night of this year’s Primavera. My friend was right: it was fucked.

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The rain started around 8-ish, during Geese’s set, when Cameron Winter was looking hot for a while and thrashing about in the downpour. He looked like Ryan Gosling in The Notebook, with everyone fancying Our Bob Dylan. The set concluded abruptly when some Spanish guys in hi-vis came onstage to politely push them off. Word then got out that Doja Cat’s set was cancelled. Bummer. The vibes were low, but one could barely see what was going on amidst an ocean of bright waterproof ponchos passed out by festival staff peppered by various umbrellas. It looked less rock set, more Jesus on the mount, if they had plastic ponchos back in whenever-BC.

Not all were tranced out exclusively by the power of music, or the soggy elements. “I was taking so much ket to keep warm I thought Doja’s set had started,” I overheard someone say in the portaloo queue a few hours later.

The second day rolled around, and the festival fits emerged from the rain gear in the Spanish summer sun. There was no major effort, nor concerted energy: for this Gen Z gathering of European youth, Euro summer is not a one week vacation, but a seasonal affair. More Berghain than Bieberchella, the city dress was as urban as the landscape, and the only cowboy paraphernalia in sight was during ROLE MODEL’s set, which was mostly an excitable gathering of every girl in Europe who had Eras Tour tickets. Primavera’s audiences, largely, pivoted towards a Berlin-led, Charli-endorsed look of big sunglasses and white vests, with a topical bloke-core emphasis that fell somewhere between Arsenal FC’s recent Premier League victory and the upcoming World Cup.

But Primavera is a youth festival through and through, and there were only two things on any night’s agenda: the music and the drugs. One would think there would be some romance, given all the good times vibes. Well I was looking good. Two strangers told me so at different intervals, and I so love it when everyone’s happy drunk. I’m also quite good at sourcing it out – youth is so fleeting, a summer situationship even more so. Maybe some got their kicks in at Primavera 2026! But an Instagram meme page declared “you’re not going to find your soulmate at Primavera” and almost all the single friends I knew liked it. (That winning metric of anthropological study, Insta likes.)

Look, maybe there’s something to be said about the Coachella hair stations for making oneself presentable to potential mate. And like, not being totally fucked up on whatever one has taken.

But like selecting the right wine, Europeans carefully consider their substances for the set. Perhaps that’s why the last night of any festival, really, is so heavy, especially when abroad. It’s not like we’re going to try and get this baggy of XYZ back through Barcelona Airport. It would be a shame to throw it away! One guy got particularly entrepreneurial during The XX, where the troops were smoking and swaying like it was a techy Woodstock set. Looking for MDMA can trade for poppers! The Gorillaz was next up, you see.

Come on, techy Woodstock. Rain and all.

Later, my friend and I, having bumped into two other friends after they also left the group for the portaloos – Yooo! No fucking way! The toilets are fucking shit – managed to get a signal bar and phoned a pal in the Big Group. They slowly worked out where the hell the others were. “They’re at Father John Misty” said Harry, triumphantly. We were huddled in the only relatively sheltered part of the festival, crowded in, everyone damp and a bit miserable. Uber? Is the same in all languages. “But, you know, it just occurred to me. I was so happy to reach them, I kinda hung up. I didn’t ask where in Father John Misty they are.”

It turned out they were right at the very front. He wasn’t coming on for another half hour and we had plenty of time. Spanish summer rain is warm and present; it doesn’t pelt, it lingers, like walking through a half-broken car wash. Grinning and cajoling like triumphant school kids, we bounced our way through, holding hands as we ran through the near-empty concrete terrain, only stopping when we approached the growing audience.

“Hang on,” said Lois. “I think I can see them!”

And there they were. White pearly teeth beamed in the festival light as wet bodies embraced wet bodies. Not only did our friends erupt in cheer at our arrival, everyone around us did, too. Ay ay ay! is also the same in every language. Under the bruised sky of the storm and between the tanned limbs of my friends, the collective vibes coursing through our veins finally peaked and I spun and swirled to the music of excitable chatter. Euro summer forever.

Photos via Getty/Bea Isaacson