If you’ve ever done magic mushrooms, then you already know what the first hour of the trip looks like. For the uninitiated, it is not uncommon to experience a nauseating foxtrot through the very worst of your anxieties. At the same time, your body negotiates whether or not you’ll lose the ice cream you just ate for dinner. This is the most challenging part of the shroom experience, as you doubt yourself and every decision that brought you here. 

Slowly but surely, you find your bearings, your boyfriend, and your bravest face. You walk down a wooded path, and you are greeted by a kindly clown on bag-check duty. He bends to peer in your bag, only for his foamy red clown nose to tumble to the ground. A tearing sound rings out through the trees as he attempts to retrieve his nose. He has ripped his pants, and in that moment, you are divinely rewarded by the universe for sticking it out during the come-up. 

This is ShazamFest. A place where your ability to commune with your discomfort will be rewarded with world-class musical performances and a community unlike any other. 

Taxi Girls /Main Stage

Taxi Girls Strike First

ShazamFest’s approach to programming is unorthodox, to say the least. My first indication of this was when Montreal punk outfit Taxi Girls took the stage at 8:30, before the sun dipped below the mountainside and before the evening’s shows really kicked off. 

This is a group that would be most at home in a ‘venue’ like Montreal’s Van Horne Underpass or some place equally dirty and illegal—somewhere Vera Bozickovic’s scratchy, hostile vocals can crash off hard concrete and thrashing bodies. Instead, here they are, giving it their all on a warm summer evening as kids practice their cartwheels and young parents bob their heads. It’s a striking juxtaposition, and it’s certainly not the slot I’d give to such a raucous, high-energy group. And yet somehow, it just works. The femme four-piece is relentless, oscillating between hard rock and hardcore, steadily whipping the growing crowd before them into a nucleus of movement and moshing.

Meeting Captain Shazam

When I first laid eyes on ShazamFest founder Ziv Przytyk, it was seeing his face on the back of a ShazamBuck, a fun twist on the usual drink tickets offered to media. The man himself is no less irreverent and whimsical, more than happy to regale us with story after story of all that’s gone on in 20 years of ShazamFest. Geared in a naval officer’s hat, Captain Ziv teaches us a little about the history of the festival, how he and his brother Sasha came home to the Eastern Townships after some time abroad, returning with a simple and singular mission: To throw a damn good party.

ShazamFest founder Ziv Przytyk

What was, presumably, a thrown-together rager in the woods 20 years ago has truly blossomed today. Admiral Ziv surveys his lands as he speaks, pointing out the rustic stages and structures that circle the mainstage area, telling us about the stage catching fire one year, about catching cops gawking at burlesque the next. Despite being a personal friend to seemingly all 2,000 attendees, he’s a warm, gracious host as he welcomes us into his world.

Martin the Stretcher / Main Stage

The Celestial Bodies of Sci-Fi Burlesque 

Ziv and his partner, Elisabeth Besozzi (who has been beside Ziv with ShazamFest for some time) clad in dazzling DIY UFO costumes, took to the stage to introduce us to the universe of Sci-Fi burlesque. In dizzying ShazamFest fashion, the performance swings like a pendulum—wildly between glamorous and grotesque. Rhapsody Blue brought showgirl drama, while Martin the Stretcher and Daddy Red provided the evening’s body horror. I was pleasantly surprised by the experimental balloon-based burlesque act brought to us by Râx Kaléidos. Equal parts elegant and freakish, their foreboding performance was brought to life by their ability to convey narrative to a medium not typically revered for its use of plot. 

Bob Log III / Main Stage

Bob Log III Sets Shazam on Fire (Again)

When you drive out to an ambiguous rural acreage for a festival you’ve never heard of, the dream is, of course, to find new artists you love. Fortunately for me, ShazamFest XX rang in the milestone in the best possible way: Bringing back one of their most legendary musical acts for a swampy swansong for the ages.

Log’s reputation precedes him. We were informed that the last time he headlined ShazamFest 13 , they managed to convince The Blood Brothers, a pyrotechnics company from Quebec who frequently works in Hollywood, to help—which apparently resulted in some $20,000 worth of explosives being set off during the show. This was made even more spectacular when the mainstage looked like it caught fire, a story that witnesses all seem to remember quite fondly. While the IEDs were absent at this year’s Bob Log III show, the Tucson-based slide guitar savant had no trouble making this performance just as explosive. 

Bob Log III takes the stage in a human cannonball suit, à la Evil Knievel, The Stig, or maybe one half of a redneck Daft Punk. His face is obscured by a motorcycle helmet, which has a shitty mic fixed inside to let him sing. The resulting effect, not to mention his downright unknowable guitar tone, makes it sound like music coming out of a birthday card from some hot, humid hell. Playing a kick drum with his feet and truly unique blues-punk slide guitar with his hands, Log puts on one of the craziest barnburners of a show I’ve ever seen one man play. 

Whether it was making toast on stage and tossing it at the audience, bringing up members of the crowd to bounce on his lap while he plays, or simply the way he leaps to his feet, fist overhead and screaming obscenities after every song, there’s something about this Arizona-based, internationally-known freakshow that just feels so right. Humdinging slide guitar and four-on-the-floor kick drum. Lyrics requesting a boob in his Scotch. Downright hostility, taunting us as he threatens to play his last song. The man is a foul-mouthed virtuoso, ‘humbly’ concealing his raw skill and showmanship under unforgettable gimmicks and a raw, played-up machismo.

Kelowna Rose / Amphitheatre Stage

The Chronicles of a Very Sweaty Tent

Saturday morning came in swinging with a heatwave sun punishing me for the sins of the night before. Drenched in sweat, I slithered out of my tent and made my new home in the river that runs along the edge of ShazamFest. 

During my extended stay in the river, I was exposed to the overwhelming bass of BricaBrac Sound System. While it was perhaps 800 dB too loud, I was once again rewarded for my discomfort, as I was able to observe the ShazamFest community at its finest. Families of every configuration imaginable are all participating in the simple pleasure of chilling in the creek. As a twenty-something city dweller, it is exceedingly rare that I am at the same event as a four-year-old or sixty-five-year-old, let alone us all having a good time together. ShazamFest might just be on the cutting edge of what it means to create a truly intergenerational event where everyone’s got an eye out for each other, and the kids are there to keep the adults in check. 

Just as BricaBrac Sound System faded into the heat of the day, a familiar tune floated down the river. The 2013 indie classic, “Riptide,” was performed by a Shazam youngster in the kids’ talent show. ShazamFest boasts an impressive slate of programming for children, from puppet-building workshops to circus skills and live entertainment for kids. 

ShazamFest is ultimately made more raucous because of, not despite, its family values, and in this day and age, I think that’s something worth celebrating (hopefully, for 20 more years).  

After a long, hard day drinking beer in the river and basking in the sun, I walked my sorry ass up to my tent for a nap. The oppressive heat of the tent sent me to a nearby patch of grass to catch some Zs, during which time, I was lulled in and out of sleep by the voice of a literal angel from heaven, Kelowna Rose. With powerfully dreamy vocals and a comedic flair in her lyricism, she made for a peaceful refuge from the chaos of the ShazamFest mainstage. That nap saved my life, but Kelowna Rose saved my soul. 

Kroco / Mainstage

Kroco: Disco Resurrection 

Sitting atop a grassy hill overlooking the mainstage, I reacquaint myself with the waking world. From my perch, I see festivalgoers slide by like Jell-O across a red-hot dashboard. The well-loved ShazamFest structures stand proud in this quaint pseudo-town square. Suddenly, Kroco takes the stage. 

These silver-clad disco-punks waste no time commanding me to dance like a flame commands a moth. Their undeniable sound quickly draws an impressively active crowd to their display of frenetic joy. Despite being a fountain of energy, Kroco as a group embodies precision and synchronicity. Each member is doing their part to craft a glittering disco canvas for lead singer, Rafik, to make their mark upon. Rafik the Kid is impossible to look away from, constantly in motion with their 70s’ swagger, while never failing to deliver addictive falsetto. 

Days later, as I write this, the chorus of “Neptune (I want it)” bounces around in my little brain. Kroco does exactly what they set out to do: create irresistibly dancey disco with uncompromising punk convictions. 

Just as the audience begins to find its groove, a mysterious duo joins the crowd.

Brahima Key and Philippe St-Denis (Giant puppets)

Two giant puppets, to be precise. Manned by their creators, Brahima Key and Philippe St-Denis, these two magnificent human puppets danced alongside the regular-sized human audience. Sometimes, stopping to wave at awestruck children, or coming together to dance in each other’s gangly puppet arms, the appearance of these puppets added an otherworldly beauty to an already spectacular Kroco set. As a puppet enthusiast myself, I was delighted to see the warm reception of these carefully crafted giants by the audience at large. I will be keeping an eye out for the next collaboration between master of giant puppetry Key and metal sculptor St-Denis. 

The Ballad of Incomprehensible Programming Choices: Tribal Roses

The peak of my mushroom experience, unfortunately, coincided with The Tribal Roses, a predominantly white-presenting dance troop that delivered a lengthy mess of cultural appropriation to hits such as the Harry Potter theme (electronic remix) and Woodkid’s “Iron” (of Assassin’s Creed fame). In gaudy makeup and confusing dress, they toddled the stage with the disorganized pageantry of a baby’s first dance recital. Even in my altered state, I found nothing redeeming about this performance. 

Éliane Bonin / Main Stage

Losing the Plot, Finding the Beauty: Les Sorcières Brulent Toutes 

Les Sorcières Brulent Toutes was a gruelling march through the world of circus and freakshow entertainment. Despite my souring disposition as the performance dragged on, MC Lilith (AKA Éliane Bonin of the circus troupe Productions Carmagnole) administered desperately needed adrenaline to the fading audience through their radical retelling of Adam and Eve through an impassioned gender-fuck lens. 

The final notable act of the troupe came in the form of fearless, ballerina-esque contortionist Eris D’Eir, twisting and balancing bare-chested on a bed of broken glass. This performance felt like a small eternity, where I found myself fondly remembering a time when ShazamFest used to have music… 

Salin / Main Stage

Salin Puts on the Ritz

After a truly bizarre, long-winded, stint of circus, burlesque, and pseudo-Indigenous, whitewashed firewalking ‘ceremonies,’ the crowd is antsy for another show. The infectious vitality of Kroco is a distant memory, Bob Log III a half-forgotten tale amongst the consistently confusing flow of ShazamFest’s program and schedule. The acid is wearing off, the sunstroke setting in. The band is late. Could all be lost?

Fortunately, our fears are quickly slid aside as Montreal-based jazz fusion artist Salin finally takes the stage. Like a pageant queen, she arrives dressed in a stunning gown with her hair in a huge beehive atop her head. From the moment she sits down behind her drum kit at centre-stage, she doesn’t stop beaming for a moment, and neither do we.

Salin is one of the most graceful, yet powerful drummers I’ve ever seen. Incredible volume control, a crisp, hair-raising snare, coaxing tones never thought possible from a seemingly simple percussion instrument. Somehow, she (almost) never steals the show, despite being more than capable of doing so. Instead, we watch as she and her five bandmates elegantly, equitably share the stage for each song. Every player is firmly rooted in their niche, pitching in their sonic contributions without ever crossing the line into indulgence, a trap so many modern jazz outfits seem to fall for. 

The band trades their solos, handing the torch to one another with grace and elegance, all under the watchful, smiling eye of Salin. Her drumsticks are conductor batons akimbo, a sweeping fill to the left elicits a stunning flute moment, then to the right to command a plucky Strat solo. It’s not until the end that Salin truly takes a moment of her own, a thunderous yet ever-restrained crescendo of ghost notes and subdivisions. A symphony on the skins, while her band watches in awe, just as we are. 

Into the Night with Francbâtards

It’s getting late, the shows are behind schedule, and my brain is feebly existing in a mushy, transitory state between psychedelic elation and dog-tired. Over on the mini stage next to the bar, a small army is setting up on the tiny platform. I quietly pledge to myself: One song, then it’s back to the tent for bed.

Naturally, I should have known it wouldn’t have worked out this way. I should have known my perseverance would pay off, too, as it has time and time again in the parallel reality of ShazamFest. How could I have known that this 9-piece group would turn out to play an absolutely electric set of ska, afro-beat, reggae, and more? Because it’s ShazamFest, and evidently, they do not fuck around when it comes to closers.

One song from Francbâtards, and suddenly the waning crowd has returned in full force, swarming the comically packed stage as they fire off blistering French rap, ridiculous full-band compositions, and an energy I can only describe as manic. If we were thinking about calling it a night before, Francbâtards reminds us that things are only getting started, easily taking us to sunrise as we shout back lyrics, kneel on the ground, and writhe and twist amongst each other. Raucous, rowdy, and a damn good time, Francbâtards was the perfect act to conclude my first ShazamFest.

Nature, Connection, and Love – ShazamFest Specialties

It was a bittersweet feeling to pack up my tent and remaining warm beers on Sunday morning. Eager to sit in front of an air conditioner and think cold thoughts, but at the same time, sad to say goodbye to these stunning grounds and the magical commune that had popped up within them.

Before we hit the road, we were invited to stop by the main farmhouse on the property, a breathtaking, Secret Garden-esque locale where Ziv lives along with his parents, Jerzy Przytyk and Natasha Bird. Chickens run free, Chica the Dachshund dozes in the grass under the breakfast table, and a warm breeze blows through the nearby apple orchard. Hearing Jerzy speak on 20 years of ShazamFest, I start to understand how something like this is possible.

ShazamFest Festival goers

To call Jerzy and Natasha’s warmth and kindness ‘hospitality’ would be underselling it. They have an open attitude to life itself that pervades every aspect of the festival and beyond, lessons which were obviously instilled in fest founder Ziv from the beginning. Jerzy thinks of the farm as something of a public place, a beautiful refuge from the pressures of life, the futility of work, and the agony of toiling under technofeudalism (all of which clearly pass as light breakfast conversation amongst new friends around here). “There’s space for a few friends inside,” they say, “and a couple thousand in the yard.”

Jerzy left communist Poland a lifetime ago to start a new chapter in Quebec, though he clearly imported more than just the CCCP t-shirt he’s sporting. We talk about the alternatives to “life” as we know it. That near-unimaginable possibility of spending your time on earth growing your own garlic and throwing your own parties instead of working yourself into a casket. They invite us, strangers they’ve known for less than a day and some 50 years their junior, to come back for a camp-out whenever we like, and you get the sense they really mean it. Not out of some kind of obligation or politeness, but out of a deep love for anyone who chose to be here this weekend.

Being welcomed into the home of this family helped us to understand what truly powers the magic of ShazamFest. It’s not the incredible music, the death-defying stunts, the raucous rappers, or the sensual circus that makes this gathering special, but the spirit at its core. 

What other festival feeds you fresh, farm-grown food at around $2 a plate? What other festivals see world-class jazz musicians following up circus body horror and amateur, but impassioned fire shows? What other festival shrugs off the curated, sanitized programming of modern-day events in favour of true freaks and weirdos, schedule flow be damned? It’s ShazamFest. A place where people make it happen simply because they love it, and the rest is up to you.

As we say our slow goodbyes in the warming summer morning, I’m reminded of a shroom-fueled explanation of this place I overheard between a vet and a new initiate: “It’s nature. It’s people connecting with each other. It’s love. It’s ShazamFest, man. You’re gonna fucking love it.”

Photos by Stephan Boissonneault

Now in its 20th year, ShazamFest (July 10–13 in Barnston-Ouest, QC) remains a glorious collision of circus, music, mud, and mayhem in the Eastern Townships. It’s part music festival, part underground sideshow, part spiritual retreat for the absurd. And the 2025 lineup delivers big on its trademark strangeness. Here are five acts you’ll regret missing—assuming you remember them the next morning.

Bob Log III
Imagine a rockabilly robot from a post-apocalyptic swamp, armed with a slide guitar and a motorcycle helmet wired to a telephone receiver. That’s Bob Log III—a one-man blues-punk demolition crew with a flair for the unhinged. Expect stories, sweat, and solos played while crowd-surfing in an inflatable raft. You may not know what just happened, but you’ll cheer like you did.

Taxi Girls
Montreal’s own garage-punk priestesses, Taxi Girls sound like a bar fight between The Runaways and a vintage synth machine. Their sound is feral, their energy surgical, and their mission loud: rip it all down and rebuild it in heels and leather. If the world ends mid-set, it will end dancing.

Salin
Part trance ritual, part cosmic rave, Salin fuses Thai melodies, African percussion, and deep electronic grooves into something that feels both ancient and futuristic. Her set isn’t just music—it’s a portal. If you find yourself barefoot in the forest afterward, eyes wide, covered in glitter, blame her.

The Friendly Frogs Freak Show

Funkadelic amphibians from another dimension? Maybe. A band of virtuosos in frog suits channeling P-Funk through a vaudeville lens? Absolutely. This crew slaps, quacks, and grooves their way into your soul with basslines so tight they might cure seasonal depression. Catch them Thursday to set the weirdness bar appropriately high.

D’Jef Trio
A French flamenco-blues outfit with cabaret swagger and the stage presence of three caffeinated pirates. They sing, strum, and stomp their way through a set that feels like Django Reinhardt crashed a clown college. Equal parts skill and spectacle, they’ll have you laughing, weeping, and snapping your fingers at imaginary ghosts.

We’re in a tropical paradise, as a man sits in a chair loudly crooning to a Spanish folk song (one every Spanish person in the audience seems to know word for word) as a woman continues to slip and fall on multi-coloured mats on the ground. Two screens hang over the stage, one for documentary video, the other for translation. This is Lagartijas Tiradas al Sol’s Centroamérica, a performance part of the Festival TransAmériques.

Within the story, the characters take shape as Luisa Pardo and Lázaro G. Rodríguez, a Mexican couple (who play themselves) hell bent on investigating and documenting the regions of Central America—places they know little to nothing about. They eventually meet an exiled Nicaraguan woman who beseeches them to take her identity and fulfill a family quest in the heart of Nicaragua’s new dictatorship under husband and wife co-presidents, Daniel Ortega and Rosario Murillo.

By blending archival and documentary-style footage with stellar live acting, Centroamérica offers a gripping and layered portrayal of migration, violence, and resilience in the Central American region. From the very beginning, the audience is immersed in a multimedia collage: flickering video testimonials, snippets of real-life news broadcasts, interludes of Central American cumbia, bachata, bossa nova music, and grainy cell phone footage fill the space with an unsettling authenticity. These elements aren’t mere background—they are the foundation of the narrative, anchoring the fictionalized characters in a world that feels all too real, even as they “act out” the missing parts of the video footage.

Luisa and Lázaro sometimes speak in monologues or poetic abstraction, but the crux of the story is drawn in part from real interviews and reports, carrying the unpolished urgency of truth. There are moments when the sheer density of information threatens to overwhelm, and some narrative threads could benefit from more breathing room. But even in its messier and chaotic passages, Centroamérica remains gripping, precisely because it reflects the chaotic and unresolved nature of the crisis it portrays.