You can’t really prepare for Osheaga—even if you write up a detailed guide to the festival—you just load up your gear, lace up your boots, and pray your body holds up. For the photographers working the frontlines, it’s a three-day sprint through sweat, dust, and decibels, dodging security, crowd surfers, and the ember from a burning joint.
But the images they bring back? That’s the real souvenir. Moments frozen mid-leap, mid-sob, mid-stage dive. A pop idol silhouetted in pyro, a punk band’s frontwoman snarling into the lens, a stranger in the crowd lit like a Renaissance painting.
This year, The Main handed the reins to photographers Eva Blue (@evablue) and Alexa Kavoukis (@alexa.kavoukis) who dove in deep. Here’s what they saw through the haze and the lights.
Osheaga 2025 came out swinging. From the moment Begonia hit the River Stage with her powerhouse vocals to The Killers’ late-night singalong sermon, the island didn’t get a minute’s rest. The crowd was still finding its rhythm early on—Joey Valence & Brae gave them no choice, unleashing a nostalgic bounce attack that made you wonder if JNCO jeans might actually be making a comeback.
Dua Saleh had barely wrapped their sultry set before La Femme took the Valley Stage like a carnival possessed, swapping instruments mid-song like it was a party trick. Salute kept the Island Stage pulsing with UK garage and 90s rave nostalgia, setting a dancefloor pace that made you forget it was only Friday.
But the real electricity? That hit when Doechii stormed the Forest Stage for her Canadian debut. Drenched in something we heard described as "swamp princess energy", she held the crowd like a preacher mid-sermon—until the plug was pulled at exactly 11 p.m. Her response: a thumbs-down and one final f-bomb, offered like a benediction.
Somewhere across the grounds, The Killers were doing what they do best—belting out Mr. Brightside to a sea of raised voices. But if you were on the other side of the island, watching Doechii claim her crown, you knew exactly where the night peaked.
Day 2 was the kind of humid, chaotic marathon that tests whether your boots were made for stomping or suffering. Things kicked off steady: Naomi Sharon crooned like a Bond theme come to life, Matt Champion proved just how alone a man can look on a festival stage, and Tinzo + Jojo delivered the DJ set equivalent of a disco nap—reviving everyone in time for sundown.
Gracie Abrams brought sincerity and mascara tears to the main stage, holding it together just long enough for the clouds to lose theirs. Cue a flash storm and the kind of scramble that only happens when you mix 55,000 people, lightning, and a tight curfew.
The real turning point came after the skies cleared and Tyler, the Creator hit the stage late. Exhausted, theatrical, and self-aware to the end, he let the crowd do half the work and still walked away like a headliner. Whether you were close enough to see the sweat on his brow or just another voice in the sea shouting “EARFQUAKE,” you felt the weight of it: this was a big one.
Also—yes, Shaboozey played “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” twice. No one complained.
By Sunday, the dust was in your teeth, your phone battery was hanging on by a thread, and your limbs had fully dissociated from your body. And yet somehow, everyone still showed up—maybe limping, maybe sparkling, maybe both.
Bktherula set the tone with a set that started like a shrug and ended like a possession. BigXthaPlug followed with pure Southern mass—chains swinging, bars heavy, crowd fully locked in.
The Dare brought the sleaze revival to a crowd dressed like the early 2000s never left, and Jamie xx turned Parc Jean-Drapeau into a moving lightbox, equal parts rave and lullaby.
But Olivia Rodrigo was the main event, and she knew it. Last stop of her GUTS tour, full of teen scream therapy and tight-band theatrics. From piano ballads to punk-lite breakdowns, she hit every note, literal and emotional. You could feel the crowd trying to memorize it all in real time.
Call it what you want—pop spectacle, Disney-core catharsis—but it was a damn good closing set. And when Olivia dropped the last f-bomb of the weekend with a tiara's twinkle in her eye, Osheaga 2025 finally exhaled.
You can’t really prepare for Osheaga—even if you write up a detailed guide to the festival—you just load up your gear, lace up your boots, and pray your body holds up. For the photographers working the frontlines, it’s a three-day sprint through sweat, dust, and decibels, dodging security, crowd surfers, and the ember from a burning joint.
But the images they bring back? That’s the real souvenir. Moments frozen mid-leap, mid-sob, mid-stage dive. A pop idol silhouetted in pyro, a punk band’s frontwoman snarling into the lens, a stranger in the crowd lit like a Renaissance painting.
This year, The Main handed the reins to photographers Eva Blue (@evablue) and Alexa Kavoukis (@alexa.kavoukis) who dove in deep. Here’s what they saw through the haze and the lights.
Osheaga 2025 came out swinging. From the moment Begonia hit the River Stage with her powerhouse vocals to The Killers’ late-night singalong sermon, the island didn’t get a minute’s rest. The crowd was still finding its rhythm early on—Joey Valence & Brae gave them no choice, unleashing a nostalgic bounce attack that made you wonder if JNCO jeans might actually be making a comeback.
Dua Saleh had barely wrapped their sultry set before La Femme took the Valley Stage like a carnival possessed, swapping instruments mid-song like it was a party trick. Salute kept the Island Stage pulsing with UK garage and 90s rave nostalgia, setting a dancefloor pace that made you forget it was only Friday.
But the real electricity? That hit when Doechii stormed the Forest Stage for her Canadian debut. Drenched in something we heard described as "swamp princess energy", she held the crowd like a preacher mid-sermon—until the plug was pulled at exactly 11 p.m. Her response: a thumbs-down and one final f-bomb, offered like a benediction.
Somewhere across the grounds, The Killers were doing what they do best—belting out Mr. Brightside to a sea of raised voices. But if you were on the other side of the island, watching Doechii claim her crown, you knew exactly where the night peaked.
Day 2 was the kind of humid, chaotic marathon that tests whether your boots were made for stomping or suffering. Things kicked off steady: Naomi Sharon crooned like a Bond theme come to life, Matt Champion proved just how alone a man can look on a festival stage, and Tinzo + Jojo delivered the DJ set equivalent of a disco nap—reviving everyone in time for sundown.
Gracie Abrams brought sincerity and mascara tears to the main stage, holding it together just long enough for the clouds to lose theirs. Cue a flash storm and the kind of scramble that only happens when you mix 55,000 people, lightning, and a tight curfew.
The real turning point came after the skies cleared and Tyler, the Creator hit the stage late. Exhausted, theatrical, and self-aware to the end, he let the crowd do half the work and still walked away like a headliner. Whether you were close enough to see the sweat on his brow or just another voice in the sea shouting “EARFQUAKE,” you felt the weight of it: this was a big one.
Also—yes, Shaboozey played “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” twice. No one complained.
By Sunday, the dust was in your teeth, your phone battery was hanging on by a thread, and your limbs had fully dissociated from your body. And yet somehow, everyone still showed up—maybe limping, maybe sparkling, maybe both.
Bktherula set the tone with a set that started like a shrug and ended like a possession. BigXthaPlug followed with pure Southern mass—chains swinging, bars heavy, crowd fully locked in.
The Dare brought the sleaze revival to a crowd dressed like the early 2000s never left, and Jamie xx turned Parc Jean-Drapeau into a moving lightbox, equal parts rave and lullaby.
But Olivia Rodrigo was the main event, and she knew it. Last stop of her GUTS tour, full of teen scream therapy and tight-band theatrics. From piano ballads to punk-lite breakdowns, she hit every note, literal and emotional. You could feel the crowd trying to memorize it all in real time.
Call it what you want—pop spectacle, Disney-core catharsis—but it was a damn good closing set. And when Olivia dropped the last f-bomb of the weekend with a tiara's twinkle in her eye, Osheaga 2025 finally exhaled.
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