In search of a good ol’ fashioned sing-along, Ben Tibbits attends Truck Festival for pints, camping, and indie nostalgia aplenty.

I have spent much of 2026 wandering around the Western hemisphere. Such journeying has shaped me into a cultured individual (by that I mean I now know the word for beer in Spanish and have shared a joint with a Rastafarian), and has given me experiences a far cry from the inherent Britishness that I had come to expect for the 27 years beforehand. 

And so as the summer’s conclusion ambles closer, I felt it important not to lose such an imperfect but consequential part of who I am. And so I made sure to save time for an adventure that brought me back down to earth. The cobbled streets and muddy (actually rather dry at the moment) grasslands of England.

For some, Britishness means tea and scones, Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, overt politeness and national pride. But to me, a Brummie who hadn’t left his nation’s shores until the age of 16, it’s a very different idea. It’s chippy Fridays and bowling alley birthdays. Car factories and swearing at coppers. Sticky-floored nightclubs and singalong indie music.

The latter two are truly emblematic of my own late teenage years. I was that kid owning multiple Oasis t-shirts, growing my hair to be as scruffy as its annoying straightness would allow. Developing an unfathomably arrogant strut, frequenting dodgy venues with fake ID, playing bass guitar in a shitty band. And, of course, going to festivals.  

The days when guitar bands dominated the UK charts may be a fading memory, but there’s still a handful of British festivals that are scratching that gloriously unceasable itch for indie nostalgia. Headlined by groups who are past their climatic moments in terms of critical and commercial success but still sell tens of thousands of tickets, there seems to be a constant hunger to chant back their handful of canonical hits.

Truck Festival is the perfect example of that. Finding its home at Hill Farm in Steventon, Oxfordshire, less than an hour by train from London, Truck has been surviving and thriving for an impressive 28 years. And it continues to draw in notable legacy acts – this year hosting the likes of Maccabees, Primal Scream, Two Door Cinema Club and The Wombats – while also bringing through many of the new bands of the moment – English Teacher, Westside Cowboy, Keo, Radio Free Alice, Getdown Services, etc. 

You could argue that there’s a lack of ambition from Truck to experiment in their booking, to stretch the boat out beyond what their audience knows and loves, instead trusting in the punters’ straight-and-narrow taste. It’s not a festival for pushing conventions or rejigging formulas. It’s just about putting on a good show, and giving thousands of Brits a brief escape from the stress and normality of their everyday lives. 

And so, trying to rediscover my sense of Britishness and sing-along to some classic indie bangers, I pack as lightly as possible, enlist my best pal, and jump on a train from Paddington. 

It’s Friday in the mid-afternoon as I sit on a bench outside a boozer by Didcot Parkway Station, watching my Guinness settle, entertained by the light roar of car wheels trundling by. “What a lovely pub for a Greene King,” exclaims a girl two tables over, repeatedly taking her mousy hair in and out of a ponytail. “In London an Aperol is £12.50. It’s £3 here!”

Ah, middle England. How I’ve missed thee. 

Or have I? I debate as the malt settles in the back of my throat. I’ve been on the road more often than not of late, and have struggled to comprehend even the faintest twang of loyalty to the country I’ve always called home. Maybe a weekend in a field surrounded by tinnies and indie anthems can change that. 

My +1 arrives back from a mission to the nearby Tesco Superstore carrying an XL crate of Stella Artois and a box of wine to entertain us for the next 36 hours. He had to make the trip alone because someone had to look after the bags (and drink a Guinness), and that person had to be me. Because I don’t have a phone, you see. A recent trip to Jamaica made sure of that. It’s a funny type of freedom, being devoid of a mobile device. So far I’m liking it. 

It’s a short 15-minute bus ride to the festival grounds, and the bus arrives every 10 minutes. We decide we’re in no rush. It’d be rude not to make the most of these £3 Aperol Spritzes. So we order four. 

We finally arrive at the festival site some two hours later. The sun is well past its highest point in the sky but it’s still blisteringly hot, 30+ degrees, and we can’t locate where we are supposed to camp. We’ve been led astray by multiple security members who keep pointing us in different directions. The large case of beer, plus a tent, blanket, clothes, water, etc, is rather heavy. We eventually sort of blag our way into the staff area and pitch up. There are even showers and decent loos here – result!

Tents up, beers cracked, we head into the lion’s den. It’s not a very fierce beast, though. There are plenty of families with kids around, and groups of teenagers, some I’m sure enjoying their first festival without the adults. I feel old and young at the same time. 

The first act we see is The Cribs. The Yorkshire rockers are as toweringly effective as ever, flicking through some recent cuts from their excellent January ‘26 album, Selling A Vibe, as well as some older indisputable classics. They are one of the few guitar bands of their generation who haven’t had a significant dip in quality while continuing to make records for the last 20+ years. They’ve reinvented themselves at each turn, and have been constantly forward-thinking in the way they create. Kudos to the Jarman brothers.

Next, we mosey over to the tented Market Stage for English Teacher. Mercury Prize winners for their 2024 debut record, This Could Be Texas, the Leeds quartet are one of the most impressive and purposeful acts of the genre-agnostic new wave of bands that have launched a guitar music renaissance in the late 2010s and early 2020s. I’ve seen the band more times than I can count at this point, but they keep getting better, growing their old tunes outwards with new live arrangements, and even teasing their next era, which seems to be very quickly approaching. 

Primal Scream is next up. Probably the band on the line-up with the longest-lasting and most impactful legacy, having defined a new wave of psychedelia in the late 80s and early 90s with their iconic third album Screamadelica, the Scots take to the stage in the cherished pre-headline slot with confidence and vitality despite being some 40-plus years into their career. Not every song is gripping, but when those anthems do come – “Movin’ On Up”, “Loaded”, etc – there’s little like it. Absolute tunes; the crowd goes wild. 

We round off the bands for the day with a headline set from the beloved Maccabees. The Londoners made a triumphant return last year at Glastonbury, and are making more than just a comeback this summer. Ploughing through hits from all four of their acclaimed albums, the band bring Friday’s music to a close with the kind of class and charisma that made them among the most cherished guitar bands of their cohort. 

The sun is down, the kids are asleep… time to get lively? In the case of Truck Festival, that means the Market Stage becoming an arena of commercial dance music, and the other smaller tents being taken up by hundreds of headphone-wearing boogiers. It’s silent disco o’clock baby. We see the £15 deposit and winding queue and think better of it though, so spend most of our evening in the pub tent, which plays karaoke staples and is full of plenty of rowdy customers. The site closes at 2 am, which signifies bedtime. I neck a bottle of water with Liquid I.V. Hydration Multiplier (actually rather effective), and hit the hay. 

I awaken at around 9am, having slept surprisingly soundly, ready for a big day of music. After a long but worthwhile queue for a warm shower and a spot of breakfast, we leave camp and head into the festival grounds nice and early, having a sit-down and enjoying the Oxford Symphony Orchestra, who flit with ease between renditions of renowned pieces of classical and covers of more contemporary tracks, from Bowie to The Beatles.

We head to The Nest to see Sterling Press, a rising London band who provide an eclectic and engaging set that suggests big things to come. We hang around the pub tent for a while, play some cards, and explore the wider site for a while, and then check out Bleech 9:3. Hotly tipped, the Irish four-piece blows the roof off of the Market Stage. It’s a massive fight-for-survival mosh pit for much of the set, a far cry from the mild family-orientated main stage. I’m impressed, I must say.

We stick around the same tent for Adult DVD, who turn out to be my standout act of the weekend without a shadow of a doubt. The Leeds band offer up an amalgamation of slick and playful synthy dance and loose-lunged post-punk to mind-altering effect, provoking a similarly zealous reaction from the crowd in the overflowing Market Stage. 

Next up, we check out The Vaccines’ mainstage set. I’d actually seen the indie favourites a few weeks earlier in Madrid, and it’s a set of varying quality. When they’re good (“If U Wanna”), they’re great. Elsewhere, it can be a little pastiche. So we quickly move on to Silver Gore at The Nest, who are strange, but weirdly endearing. I almost don’t want to say too much. Just see them for yourself at the earliest opportunity. 

Another of my most anticipated acts takes to the tented Market Stage. Radio Free Alice are the Aussie troubadours who fit like a glove into the upper echelon of UK contemporary guitar music. Disappointingly, the sound is quite poor for their set, which results in the band not being able to recreate the same atmosphere as the previous bands in the same space. Still some absolutely excellent indie bangers though, from one of the best new bands of the moment. 

We watch a little bit of Kaiser Chiefs, but they sadly sound a bit like a bad cover band of themselves, and so we move on to The Royston Club. I wasn’t too familiar with the band prior, but I seem to be the only person at the festival who isn’t a die-hard fan. They absolutely pack out the Market Stage, with thousands singing along to their every word. It’s quite generic, but likeable, and clearly very consumable to the indie rock crowd. Up the Roysts! 

Finishing up the bands for the day are Two Door Cinema Club. They certainly have some classic tunes and have a bit more about them than the bands prior on the main stage. It’s a strong set to close off the night, although for me, not at the level of Maccabees or The Cribs. 

We’re then back into the night program, which means a return for most to the world of silent disco. We again refrain, wandering around getting up to no good, meeting some kooky characters and having the occasional dip into the dance tent – Oppidan being the standout, closing out the Market Stage. 2 am hits, once again providing a reasonable end time. Another liquid I.V. and bed it is. 

With prior engagements back in London, we are up early on Sunday, packing away the tent before most others are awake. We probably should have checked, but there’s no return shuttle bus until 11 am apparently… and we have no connection/I’m phoneless. We’re a bit stuck. 

Until! Two nice young men have service and offer to split an Uber. Thanks, lads. We make it back on the train with no dramas, and are back at Paddington before we know it. 

So easy to get to, a line-up bursting with nostalgia, Truck Festival feels less of a commitment than some of its contemporaries. It’s simple, fun, undeniably enjoyable in the right company. But perhaps it’s time to be bolder with line-up choices. CMAT headlined the Thursday opening night, which we couldn’t make it to, and that’s certainly a start. Maybe it’s time to bet on the next wave of artists and bands making a splash in the guitar space. Wunderhorse anyone?

As for feeling British, Truck Festival has done the job. Warm beer, milky tea, questionable accents, nostalgia-fuelled guitar music? Welcome home.