Rewrite
Attending the Spanish capital’s juggernaut of a festival, Mad Cool, Ben Tibbits sings, celebrates and tries desperately hard not to get sunburnt.
I can’t really grasp how people speak so many languages. Are others just better at remembering things than I am? More eager to learn? Holding some kind of deep-seated genetic make-up that allows them to distinguish tenses and understand gender nuances?
It’s my fifth time in Spain this year, second in the capital. And yet I couldn’t tell you as many words in the language as I have fingers on my hands. That really says a lot about me.
It’s just as well that most residents can speak at least a smattering of my mother tongue. Oh, and that I’m surrounded by British people. We’re just fucking everywhere, aren’t we? We smell a festival, and we’re on a Ryanair flight faster than you can say duty-free.
The UK has been hotter than usual this summer (impending doom whoop whoop). But London’s heat is nothing compared to the volcanic calefaction of Madrid. It’s so hot you can almost see the heat.
Every time I touch something, a static shock attacks my finger. It’s grating, unnerving… thrilling?
An Aperol Spritz is always welcome. Some may argue (me included), the orange liquor’s amalgamation with prosecco and sparkling water is the highest form of hydration. Mad Cool Festival seems to know it well. But the 50,000+ capacity music extravaganza – which transpires in early-mid July at Iberdrola Music venue in the Villaverde district – is acclaimed for more than its refreshments.
This year marks a decade of Mad Cool. Taking place a month or so after Spain’s other heavy-hitting highway to hedonism, the four-day festival finds its purpose in supplying the masses. We’re talking humongous headliners, crowd-pleasing support acts; an eclectic mix that fulfils the dad rockers and pop girlies alike. It’s top-tier hospitality, affordable-ish tickets, relaxed but rousing energy.
I’d like to consider myself a festival veteran at this point. I’ve been all around the UK and Europe, spending my summers in fields and car parks, searching for the true essence of enjoyment, of community, of live music. I think I found it – perhaps here. Or here. Now, life is a perpetual victory lap. Or a sharpening of focus.
It’s Wednesday early evening, and I’m sitting at a hotel bar, chugging a few cervezas with a publicist pal, waiting for a ride that was due a few hours ago. I don’t mind, though; the drink is cold and the conversation good. I miss my pal Ellie and her band of merry rockers, though.
Eventually, a car picks us up, and we speed over to the site in time for Foo Fighters on the Region of Madrid stage. The opening day slot for Dave Grohl and co indicates the substantial reach of the festival, and the sizeable crowd ecstatically sings along to the hits. I’m more vanilla on them myself, but appreciate the spectacle.
I saunter off before the set closes to see an artist who is far more interesting and unique. Moby, the legendary, era-defining NYC sonic visionary, pulls together a track list that flips between his 20-plus albums, backed by some heartfelt if hilarious visuals of cows – only natural for the animal rights activist and avid vegan.
The Vaccines come next on The Loop Iberdrola stage, which is a flash pan of nostalgia. Of course, they aren’t a band who have ever pushed too many artistic boundaries, but they are great at making you feel young. By the time “All My Friends Are Falling in Love” closes out the set, I feel 16 again, and have little left of my voice.
That’s about it music-wise for day one. The press party makes its way back to the hotel. I’ve not eaten much today, and there’s only really McDonald’s open. I have an apple juice and some cheese stars. They’re very tasty. Sorry, Moby.
The next day is welcomed in with an Eggs Benedict (sorry, Moby) and a boatload of emailing. I’m off to the site a little early today because I’m due an interview with Chloe Slater. As I wait in the backstage area for the singer-songwriter to complete a few other chats, I make friends with CMAT’s bassist, Willy Bish, and dip my toes in some nice cool water. It’s a day of scintillating heat.
Chloe Slater is a Bournemouthian singer-songwriter gearing up to share her much-anticipated debut album on 9th October. Riot Youth, she’s called it, emblematic of her boldness in talking about real-world issues in her songwriting. “I mean it’s difficult, isn’t it,” she grins as we sit down for a quick chat when I ask if she’s a political artist. “Isn’t all art political, but some is more overtly political? Which I guess mine is. Some of my songs are political. No one likes to box themselves in, do they? I have songs that are just about my life. I like to say I write about the times that I live in from my perspective.”
In an age when cutting through the noise, having a voice, and speaking with freedom and understanding is harder than ever, artists like Slater need to lead from the front. “The reason why people find it scary to say something is because everything is so permanent now, like a digital footprint. If you say one word slightly wrong in a sentence, the way you deal can be completely misconstrued. It’s definitely easier to not say anything, and then you can’t get in trouble. But I think protest is and can be effective. There is a problem with hyper-individualisation; it’s a late-stage capitalist thing. People don’t come together; people are told you can do it on your own, you don’t owe anyone anything, don’t drive your friend to the airport. Protect your peace. But there actually is a bit of an issue with not having community.”
The forthcoming record tackles Slater’s concerns, angst and hope. Influenced by the likes of Sam Fender, Wolf Alice and Fontaines D.C., it feels like a worthy addition to the contemporary indie rock canon in the making. “I’ve always wanted to make an album,” she contemplates, smiling, gazing ahead into autumn. “The process is crazy; I didn’t realise how long it takes to do that and to get it perfect. Not that anything’s ever perfect, but you know, close enough. But yeah, I’m really excited. I love the whole visual world and the sound and everything I’ve written about. It’s really important to me.”
For now, she’s got both feet planted firmly in Madrid. “Yeah, I am, actually,” confirming her excitement for her set due to take place in a couple of hours. “Apparently we’re in the air-conditioned tent, so life is good.” Is she going to stick around after? For one sweet stick of Swedish dynamite, of course. “I’m going to do the “Lush Life” dance,” she giggles.
Saying my goodbyes to Chloe, I get my Aperol on and wander over to CMAT. Now you might not know this about me, dear reader, but I am a mahusive fan of the Irish country renegade. We’re talking – I’ve seen her live more than maybe any artist in the past 18 months. I often listen to and profusely sing along to her third album EURO-COUNTRY if I’m tipsy and travelling.
The set is a little shorter than I’d have liked, but it is still my highlight of the festival. I just can’t get enough. There’s no new music, only the classics. She’s in cheeky form despite the burning weather, as beautifully dramatic as ever. Flawless. I leave the Orange Stage as joyful as I’ve felt all year. Damn Ciara, I am under your spell.
Next, I check out Slater’s set, who delivers the goods with her politically articulate, musically potent indie rock anthems, before jetting back to the main stage for the first headliner of the day. Lorde has an all-new set ready for the busy second half of the summer ahead, which will see her also headline All Points East in London next month.
I really, really want to like it, and to think Lorde is a great performer. But I’m sorry, I just don’t. The crowd isn’t particularly engaged, and the whole performance feels a bit awkward and clumsy. The physical set is minimalist in a way that feels severely lacking compared to the acts that follow. Feels a little try-hard to me. I apologise to the Lorde community. Maybe APE will change my opinion.
Swedish superstar Zara Larsson follows directly after, and the difference between the two sets could not be more vast. The Scandi pop frontrunner’s renaissance is a sight to behold, and she seems to be getting sharper and sexier with each passing performance. Here, flicking through Midnight Sun bangers and her old favourites, she ascends as an absolute Goddess who can make even the stiffest of straight men dance.
It really is a day destined for the upper echelons of TikTok-loving late teenagers. After the highs of Zara, it’s straight into JENNIE of BLACKPINK. Me and K-pop have a love-hate relationship (mainly hate) so I stand back for this one and focus on the Spritz.
The big headline set of the day is from Florence + The Machine. I see the start of her (obviously) mind-blowing set, but then sneak off into one of the tented stages because I simply have to see the immaculate Frost Children. The crowd is understandably modest with the Florence clash and the fact that this doesn’t really feel like the EDM pop duo’s scene, but those who are there are going crazy. Me included.
I make it back to the Machine for the final few songs. I’m out of energy, so I lie out on the fake grass. “Dog Days Are Over” serenades my ears. Florence tells the crowd to put their phones away. They listen. It’s a gorgeous slice of memory waiting to be grazed upon in years to come.
I take the aux for the journey home – in a car full of bigwig music journos – and absolutely smash it. Shame bed is calling.
The next day is a little groggy and full of new music Fridaying. But as the afternoon draws to a close, I’m finding my way back to full battery just in time for the day’s music. First up, a treat! Pixies sound as youthful as ever, even if they don’t look like it. The drummer appears to be pushing three digits in years on this earth. Can still keep a snappy beat though – fair play.
Cliffords come next, the slick Irish four-piece who bring electric energy. The new song that unravels a tale of horses and divorces is a particular highlight. After such, there’s an ulterior motive at play. Kings of Leon are trudging through their greatest hits, but there’s other matters of interest occurring simultaneously… Spain vs Belgium. Another couple of journalists and I are on a mission to watch it. I find out later there’s a screen somewhere in the festival grounds, but my quest takes me back behind the stage, where I’m technically not supposed to be…but fit right in.
I have a little paddle in the mini pool and watch Mikel Merino save Spain’s bacon (sorry Moby). The surrounding crowd – mostly made up of artists and their teams – give a tepid cheer at the goal. I can’t help thinking that if this were English, the reaction might have been slightly different. More boisterous. Unhinged. Passionate?
All love to the – I’m sure – lovely fellas in Twenty One Pilots, but I opt to jump on an earlier return ride and miss their headline showcase. The night is still relatively young, so a handful of us head out into Madrid. It is somewhat tricky to find open places, though, despite the time being barely midnight. We eventually find a bar, completely empty, reminiscent of a micro-sized version of the bar of the infamous dance in The Inbetweeners Movie. At least the barman allows us to take charge of the music for a short time, until his manager/mother/aunt returns from wherever she’s been and takes back agency.
Eventually, seemingly hours later, I end up at Kaos, a nightclub opposite the hotel that honestly makes me shudder just thinking about it. It’s clear that the night is over, and maybe should have ended a few vodka ginger beers ago.
The next day is pretty rough, but I perk up. A final day of Aperol and fun is calling. On site, I grab some festival food for the first time – a delicious falafel in a pitta. A wander around the large open-air location is met with a tinge of sadness – a classic zest of climatic day blues – but also admiration at the structure itself. It’s tightly compacted yet spacious, never feeling too congested by attendees. There’s also a ferris wheel, although I’m a little too fragile to give it a spin today.
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds is the first act I lock into. He’s still, decades on from emerging as an enigmatic presence, one of the most captivating and compelling songwriters and performers on the planet. Deliciously dark one minute, earnestly endearing the next. “Into My Arms” closes the set perfectly.
While Nick and crew have been stunning the thousands of onlookers, I’ve been multitasking. England is playing Norway. I’m stooped around a laptop in the press area with a bunch of British journos. The tension is borderline unbearable, as we go 1-0. But our saviour, Jude. Into extra time. JUDE. The minutes go on, drag by, but eventually the whistle goes.
All the while, outside the tent, Pulp has been parading through a set of wonderful wit and majestic musicality. All the hits, all the best tunes from their 2025 comeback LP, More. And as the final whistle of the World Cup quarter-final comes to a close, the Sheffield cult favourite begin to play their most recognisable song.
Fuck “Wonderwall” – “Common People” is my World Cup anthem. We all run out and take in the spectacle, dancing to the festival’s close. Another memory to cherish, one of unfathomable relief and happiness.
Home time, straight to sleep, early flight on the morrow. Back on a plane with barely a brain. Dozing in and out of consciousness. Sometimes I close my eyes and see Jarvis Cocker’s beaming face. Other times, an Aperol Spritz. My heart is full. Mad Cool has been a hell of a time. While I didn’t love every performance, that’s not necessarily the point. There was something for everyone, plenty to sonically feast upon. A treat in La Villa y Corte.
Words – Ben Tibbits
Photography – @javierbragdo // @luiscarbxnell // @fotoandresIglesias
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Attending the Spanish capital’s juggernaut of a festival, Mad Cool, Ben Tibbits sings, celebrates and tries desperately hard not to get sunburnt.
I can’t really grasp how people speak so many languages. Are others just better at remembering things than I am? More eager to learn? Holding some kind of deep-seated genetic make-up that allows them to distinguish tenses and understand gender nuances?
It’s my fifth time in Spain this year, second in the capital. And yet I couldn’t tell you as many words in the language as I have fingers on my hands. That really says a lot about me.
It’s just as well that most residents can speak at least a smattering of my mother tongue. Oh, and that I’m surrounded by British people. We’re just fucking everywhere, aren’t we? We smell a festival, and we’re on a Ryanair flight faster than you can say duty-free.
The UK has been hotter than usual this summer (impending doom whoop whoop). But London’s heat is nothing compared to the volcanic calefaction of Madrid. It’s so hot you can almost see the heat.
Every time I touch something, a static shock attacks my finger. It’s grating, unnerving… thrilling?
An Aperol Spritz is always welcome. Some may argue (me included), the orange liquor’s amalgamation with prosecco and sparkling water is the highest form of hydration. Mad Cool Festival seems to know it well. But the 50,000+ capacity music extravaganza – which transpires in early-mid July at Iberdrola Music venue in the Villaverde district – is acclaimed for more than its refreshments.
This year marks a decade of Mad Cool. Taking place a month or so after Spain’s other heavy-hitting highway to hedonism, the four-day festival finds its purpose in supplying the masses. We’re talking humongous headliners, crowd-pleasing support acts; an eclectic mix that fulfils the dad rockers and pop girlies alike. It’s top-tier hospitality, affordable-ish tickets, relaxed but rousing energy.
I’d like to consider myself a festival veteran at this point. I’ve been all around the UK and Europe, spending my summers in fields and car parks, searching for the true essence of enjoyment, of community, of live music. I think I found it – perhaps here. Or here. Now, life is a perpetual victory lap. Or a sharpening of focus.
It’s Wednesday early evening, and I’m sitting at a hotel bar, chugging a few cervezas with a publicist pal, waiting for a ride that was due a few hours ago. I don’t mind, though; the drink is cold and the conversation good. I miss my pal Ellie and her band of merry rockers, though.
Eventually, a car picks us up, and we speed over to the site in time for Foo Fighters on the Region of Madrid stage. The opening day slot for Dave Grohl and co indicates the substantial reach of the festival, and the sizeable crowd ecstatically sings along to the hits. I’m more vanilla on them myself, but appreciate the spectacle.
I saunter off before the set closes to see an artist who is far more interesting and unique. Moby, the legendary, era-defining NYC sonic visionary, pulls together a track list that flips between his 20-plus albums, backed by some heartfelt if hilarious visuals of cows – only natural for the animal rights activist and avid vegan.
The Vaccines come next on The Loop Iberdrola stage, which is a flash pan of nostalgia. Of course, they aren’t a band who have ever pushed too many artistic boundaries, but they are great at making you feel young. By the time “All My Friends Are Falling in Love” closes out the set, I feel 16 again, and have little left of my voice.
That’s about it music-wise for day one. The press party makes its way back to the hotel. I’ve not eaten much today, and there’s only really McDonald’s open. I have an apple juice and some cheese stars. They’re very tasty. Sorry, Moby.
The next day is welcomed in with an Eggs Benedict (sorry, Moby) and a boatload of emailing. I’m off to the site a little early today because I’m due an interview with Chloe Slater. As I wait in the backstage area for the singer-songwriter to complete a few other chats, I make friends with CMAT’s bassist, Willy Bish, and dip my toes in some nice cool water. It’s a day of scintillating heat.
Chloe Slater is a Bournemouthian singer-songwriter gearing up to share her much-anticipated debut album on 9th October. Riot Youth, she’s called it, emblematic of her boldness in talking about real-world issues in her songwriting. “I mean it’s difficult, isn’t it,” she grins as we sit down for a quick chat when I ask if she’s a political artist. “Isn’t all art political, but some is more overtly political? Which I guess mine is. Some of my songs are political. No one likes to box themselves in, do they? I have songs that are just about my life. I like to say I write about the times that I live in from my perspective.”
In an age when cutting through the noise, having a voice, and speaking with freedom and understanding is harder than ever, artists like Slater need to lead from the front. “The reason why people find it scary to say something is because everything is so permanent now, like a digital footprint. If you say one word slightly wrong in a sentence, the way you deal can be completely misconstrued. It’s definitely easier to not say anything, and then you can’t get in trouble. But I think protest is and can be effective. There is a problem with hyper-individualisation; it’s a late-stage capitalist thing. People don’t come together; people are told you can do it on your own, you don’t owe anyone anything, don’t drive your friend to the airport. Protect your peace. But there actually is a bit of an issue with not having community.”
The forthcoming record tackles Slater’s concerns, angst and hope. Influenced by the likes of Sam Fender, Wolf Alice and Fontaines D.C., it feels like a worthy addition to the contemporary indie rock canon in the making. “I’ve always wanted to make an album,” she contemplates, smiling, gazing ahead into autumn. “The process is crazy; I didn’t realise how long it takes to do that and to get it perfect. Not that anything’s ever perfect, but you know, close enough. But yeah, I’m really excited. I love the whole visual world and the sound and everything I’ve written about. It’s really important to me.”
For now, she’s got both feet planted firmly in Madrid. “Yeah, I am, actually,” confirming her excitement for her set due to take place in a couple of hours. “Apparently we’re in the air-conditioned tent, so life is good.” Is she going to stick around after? For one sweet stick of Swedish dynamite, of course. “I’m going to do the “Lush Life” dance,” she giggles.
Saying my goodbyes to Chloe, I get my Aperol on and wander over to CMAT. Now you might not know this about me, dear reader, but I am a mahusive fan of the Irish country renegade. We’re talking – I’ve seen her live more than maybe any artist in the past 18 months. I often listen to and profusely sing along to her third album EURO-COUNTRY if I’m tipsy and travelling.
The set is a little shorter than I’d have liked, but it is still my highlight of the festival. I just can’t get enough. There’s no new music, only the classics. She’s in cheeky form despite the burning weather, as beautifully dramatic as ever. Flawless. I leave the Orange Stage as joyful as I’ve felt all year. Damn Ciara, I am under your spell.
Next, I check out Slater’s set, who delivers the goods with her politically articulate, musically potent indie rock anthems, before jetting back to the main stage for the first headliner of the day. Lorde has an all-new set ready for the busy second half of the summer ahead, which will see her also headline All Points East in London next month.
I really, really want to like it, and to think Lorde is a great performer. But I’m sorry, I just don’t. The crowd isn’t particularly engaged, and the whole performance feels a bit awkward and clumsy. The physical set is minimalist in a way that feels severely lacking compared to the acts that follow. Feels a little try-hard to me. I apologise to the Lorde community. Maybe APE will change my opinion.
Swedish superstar Zara Larsson follows directly after, and the difference between the two sets could not be more vast. The Scandi pop frontrunner’s renaissance is a sight to behold, and she seems to be getting sharper and sexier with each passing performance. Here, flicking through Midnight Sun bangers and her old favourites, she ascends as an absolute Goddess who can make even the stiffest of straight men dance.
It really is a day destined for the upper echelons of TikTok-loving late teenagers. After the highs of Zara, it’s straight into JENNIE of BLACKPINK. Me and K-pop have a love-hate relationship (mainly hate) so I stand back for this one and focus on the Spritz.
The big headline set of the day is from Florence + The Machine. I see the start of her (obviously) mind-blowing set, but then sneak off into one of the tented stages because I simply have to see the immaculate Frost Children. The crowd is understandably modest with the Florence clash and the fact that this doesn’t really feel like the EDM pop duo’s scene, but those who are there are going crazy. Me included.
I make it back to the Machine for the final few songs. I’m out of energy, so I lie out on the fake grass. “Dog Days Are Over” serenades my ears. Florence tells the crowd to put their phones away. They listen. It’s a gorgeous slice of memory waiting to be grazed upon in years to come.
I take the aux for the journey home – in a car full of bigwig music journos – and absolutely smash it. Shame bed is calling.
The next day is a little groggy and full of new music Fridaying. But as the afternoon draws to a close, I’m finding my way back to full battery just in time for the day’s music. First up, a treat! Pixies sound as youthful as ever, even if they don’t look like it. The drummer appears to be pushing three digits in years on this earth. Can still keep a snappy beat though – fair play.
Cliffords come next, the slick Irish four-piece who bring electric energy. The new song that unravels a tale of horses and divorces is a particular highlight. After such, there’s an ulterior motive at play. Kings of Leon are trudging through their greatest hits, but there’s other matters of interest occurring simultaneously… Spain vs Belgium. Another couple of journalists and I are on a mission to watch it. I find out later there’s a screen somewhere in the festival grounds, but my quest takes me back behind the stage, where I’m technically not supposed to be…but fit right in.
I have a little paddle in the mini pool and watch Mikel Merino save Spain’s bacon (sorry Moby). The surrounding crowd – mostly made up of artists and their teams – give a tepid cheer at the goal. I can’t help thinking that if this were English, the reaction might have been slightly different. More boisterous. Unhinged. Passionate?
All love to the – I’m sure – lovely fellas in Twenty One Pilots, but I opt to jump on an earlier return ride and miss their headline showcase. The night is still relatively young, so a handful of us head out into Madrid. It is somewhat tricky to find open places, though, despite the time being barely midnight. We eventually find a bar, completely empty, reminiscent of a micro-sized version of the bar of the infamous dance in The Inbetweeners Movie. At least the barman allows us to take charge of the music for a short time, until his manager/mother/aunt returns from wherever she’s been and takes back agency.
Eventually, seemingly hours later, I end up at Kaos, a nightclub opposite the hotel that honestly makes me shudder just thinking about it. It’s clear that the night is over, and maybe should have ended a few vodka ginger beers ago.
The next day is pretty rough, but I perk up. A final day of Aperol and fun is calling. On site, I grab some festival food for the first time – a delicious falafel in a pitta. A wander around the large open-air location is met with a tinge of sadness – a classic zest of climatic day blues – but also admiration at the structure itself. It’s tightly compacted yet spacious, never feeling too congested by attendees. There’s also a ferris wheel, although I’m a little too fragile to give it a spin today.
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds is the first act I lock into. He’s still, decades on from emerging as an enigmatic presence, one of the most captivating and compelling songwriters and performers on the planet. Deliciously dark one minute, earnestly endearing the next. “Into My Arms” closes the set perfectly.
While Nick and crew have been stunning the thousands of onlookers, I’ve been multitasking. England is playing Norway. I’m stooped around a laptop in the press area with a bunch of British journos. The tension is borderline unbearable, as we go 1-0. But our saviour, Jude. Into extra time. JUDE. The minutes go on, drag by, but eventually the whistle goes.
All the while, outside the tent, Pulp has been parading through a set of wonderful wit and majestic musicality. All the hits, all the best tunes from their 2025 comeback LP, More. And as the final whistle of the World Cup quarter-final comes to a close, the Sheffield cult favourite begin to play their most recognisable song.
Fuck “Wonderwall” – “Common People” is my World Cup anthem. We all run out and take in the spectacle, dancing to the festival’s close. Another memory to cherish, one of unfathomable relief and happiness.
Home time, straight to sleep, early flight on the morrow. Back on a plane with barely a brain. Dozing in and out of consciousness. Sometimes I close my eyes and see Jarvis Cocker’s beaming face. Other times, an Aperol Spritz. My heart is full. Mad Cool has been a hell of a time. While I didn’t love every performance, that’s not necessarily the point. There was something for everyone, plenty to sonically feast upon. A treat in La Villa y Corte.
Words – Ben Tibbits
Photography – @javierbragdo // @luiscarbxnell // @fotoandresIglesias
and integrate them seamlessly into the new content without adding new tags. Ensure the new content is fashion-related, written entirely in Japanese, and approximately 1500 words. Conclude with a “結論” section and a well-formatted “よくある質問” section. Avoid including an introduction or a note explaining the process.
