We are so back, baby. Good Things 2025, let’s do this.

Waking up that Friday felt like being a toddler leaping out of bed on Christmas Day. I immediately fired up my speaker and started blaring Lorna Shore, smearing on some eyeliner and glitter before starting the impossible task of choosing what to wear. Arming myself with my studded cuffs, baggiest jorts and chunkiest black shoes, I was practically twitching with anticipation to be running through the front gates of Flemington Racecourse. After a rather rough drive into the city, I was finally there, pacing around the entrance while waiting for Drew, Tristan and Louis to find me.

Once reunited, we immediately bee-lined to the merch stall, spending our time in the queue figuring out which stages we wanted to hit and when. People around us pitched in with, “You can’t miss Wargasm,” or, “No way you’re not stopping by for James Reyne.” A true testament to this year’s spectacular lineup. Between the friendly bickering, we settled on catching Maples Pet Dinosaur first. Intrigued not only by the name but by the hum of excitement surrounding the artist. We arrived just as she broke into her hit “Lego”, and the crowd was absolutely enamoured by the sparkly pop-punk tune blasting from the amps.

Trying to uphold some cohesion in how we navigated the day, we swung by Windwaker’s show as they were ripping through the bridge of “Superstitious Fantasy”. As per usual, their sound was monstrously lethal - eccentric layering of synths and guttural riffs alongside Liam’s flawless rapping. You could see a shared awe among the band members as the sea of bodies proved itself relentless. Behind me, I heard the opening chords of “The Shape of Punk to Come” ringing out, and I blew Windwaker a kiss goodbye as I rushed to stage two to bounce around to Refused.

Wargasm hit Stage 5 with full force, Milkie Way and Sam Matlock immediately lifting the energy as the crowd surged forward. Their mix of snarling vocals, heavy electronics and unfiltered attitude landed harder live than anything anyone expected, the whole set pulsing with this messy, magnetic chaos. At one point Milkie flipped off the crowd and everyone threw it right back at her, not in hostility but in perfect, shared defiance, and in that moment I felt completely at home. The pit never stopped moving, bodies pushing and leaping with that unhinged joy only Wargasm seem able to conjure. By the end, their set felt less like a performance and more like a beautifully feral release the entire crowd had chosen together.

Thornhill, unfortunately but completely understandably, were about twenty minutes late, but as they bounded onto the stage they immediately tore into “DIESEL”, and the crowd went ballistic. Transitioning into “under the knife”, lead singer Jacob yelled, “Good Things, I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing here. We got called three hours ago and put this setlist together on the drive here, so you better get the fuck up!” That was all the motivation the crowd needed as the familiar, snarling riff echoed through the open air. Thornhill’s last-minute addition hit like fate; people wandering by out of curiosity ended up staying out of loyalty; a feat not many bands could pull off.

There was something wholesome in the air this year. It felt like every half hour I was stopping to talk to strangers, exchanging water for sunscreen, or gushing over each other’s outfits. Even getting deep in the pit was more forgiving than in previous years. I was practically shellshocked when I noticed people offering their barricade spots at the main stages. Although the wide age bracket of attendees is nothing new for Good Things, the general hive mind seemed more compassionate than usual. Maybe it was the heat, maybe the beautiful bedlam of the day, I’m not sure. But I’m keen to see the updated version of the Good Things survival guide being written by fans this year.

Machine Head was nothing short of a well-oiled machine (hehe), showing off the first pyrotechnics of the day. Their sound was punishing in the best way, thick, groove-laden riffs grinding forward like industrial gears, bass lines humming through your sternum. Equally gritty were Kublai Khan, one of my all-time favourites rotating through my arsenal. This was my third time seeing them live, and Honeycutt’s deliciously rough vocals never fail to make me giddy. When I reunited with my friends after the pit, they reported it was a perfect storm in there, Joel even stumbling out with a broken toenail but sporting a huge grin regardless.

Next up was some ’90s nostalgia with Garbage and Weezer. Seeing the legend himself, Butch Vig, setting up behind the kit was surreal, as was feeling the vibrations of “I Think I’m Paranoid” thrum through my body. Sitting on the grass to take respite from the sun proved to be an excellent choice, happily basking in the breeze as Weezer cruised through blissful tunes like “Surf Wax America” and “Hash Pipe”. The more somber vibe was welcomed as the weather-worn bodies around me swayed along to the iconic “Island in the Sun”.

Make Them Suffer are a band that will always hold a special place in my heart. An Australian act with a discography to be reckoned with, they tore through tracks new and old, from “Mana God” to “Bones” to the fan favourite “Widower,” each one landing harder than the last. And don’t even get me started on the pyro. When “Oscillator” hit and the stage erupted in flames, the adrenaline that shot through my veins in that pit could’ve carried me straight into a bullfight.

It took long enough for me to witness Lorna Shore live, and I was absolutely mindblown. As the sun started to set, their pyro was just as, if not more, intense than anything that had come before them, flames punching into the sky like they were trying to compete with the sunset. And Will Ramos’ vocals felt almost unreal, the kind of sounds you’d swear were written in fiction rather than produced by an actual human being. It was overwhelming in the best possible way

The sun finally surrendered as Tool took the stage. It was perfect timing as the surrounding screens pulsed with microscopic visuals and the stage lights sliced through the dark with laser precision. Their set felt less like a performance and more like psychedelic mass hypnosis. As the visuals melted into the night, the crowd swayed as if sharing a single nervous system. After nearly nine hours of frenzy, this show felt as if I was being absorbed into the music rather than thrashing through it. When they eased into “H.”, a track not played live since 2002, a murmuring palpitation shook the crowd, the steady polyrhythms snapping everyone into a trance.

As they closed with “Vicarious”, the day transformed from a typical festival into something sublime. Around me, everyone murmured some variation of, “Holy shit.”

Good Things 2025 felt like a high-stakes adventure where the script kept changing but the audience stayed buckled in for the ride. Nostalgia, new blood, broken schedules and sweaty crowd, it all melted together into something unpredictable, alive and unmistakably memorable.

Good Things | Flemington Racecourse

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