What’s Left Fest

“Free earplugs” was the first sign I read outside What’s Left Records—and for good reason: that weekend, What’s Left Fest turned that block into the loudest in the state. Over one hundred punk and metal bands hit Colorado Springs, replacing its military drills and Bible studies with breakdowns and bruises. What’s Left Fest proved that the underground scene wasn’t buried—it was alive, breathing, and rattling windows on East Platte.

What’s Left Fest felt like a living organism—three venues, each a vital organ. First was Black Sheep, the lungs—wide and open, made for breathing room, not for moshing. The circle pits felt like marathons—it had me questioning if I had asthma from how much I was coughing. I know it’s not punk to control people, but a rope line might have funneled the chaos into tighter, more violent pits—and spared us the cardio.

Vultures felt like the stomach—packed, burning, and constantly churning. It was a music bar packed tight, air thick and sour with sweat—and I loved every suffocating second. The pit barely fit ten, but the room was a sea of limbs and sound, forcing us into constant, rupturing contact. The space is so tight that gear sits inches from the pit, and as if tradition, one drunken-mosher barrels right into it every time.

What’s Left—the host and heart—kept the blood pumping with the best pits, the best A/C, and nearly all of my injuries. Early Saturday, a band promised their pits were “safe” and urged everyone to join for their last song. Within a minute, I’d taken an elbow to the skull, and someone was sprinting toward a trashcan to vomit from ten feet out.

The vendors outside worked like the bloodstream, keeping the system alive. Artists hawked work tailor-made for metalheads (BTCHRD), and the food was shockingly good (Burrowing Owl)—or maybe I’ve been eating too much Rastall’s. Still, most vendors packed up early—unwilling to sweat through the same 13-hour days the festival’s heart beat for. By the time bands hit the stage at one in the morning, I’d have traded the pit for a pillow.

On Saturday, you could feel the crowd like a pulse. The local kids were out in force, probably because their bands were too: Polish was from Denver, while RVBOMB and Daisy were local and lethal. They all took the stage in the first hours of the day with feral, fast, and moshable sets that lured kids from all over town. Fans surged on stage—not to hijack the mic, but to feed the organism, screaming every syllable in unison with the singer. Shows like that aren’t about hearing the music—it’s about the collision of the crowd and the sound, even if three of those collisions hit my head on day one. RVBOMB closed their set with “This is what Colorado Springs really needed”—I couldn’t agree more. So swap your hiking boots for Doc Martens, because the scene isn’t just alive—it’s waiting.

Out of over 100 crushingly heavy bands, my favorites were the whiniest crust and screamo bands: Lagrimas and Ostraca. I love them for the same reason I love all metal—raw emotion bleeding from amps. They weave slow, melancholic passages that rupture into ear-splitting screams and drop tuned tritoning riffs to achieve a sonically violent catharsis. Lagrimas came from LA, Ostraca from Virginia—proof of What’s Left’s pull to shake the Springs.

Rhythmic apocalypse described through music. Rarely whispering, yet still storytelling. Often beautiful, often pummeling.

Sonically heavy violence—powerful, you could call it. Fast and syncopated in every way. Brutality erupting through primal screams.

Battle cries. Rhythmic chaos. Explosions of grinding intensity.

Gritty and aggressive hardcore. Drums driving adrenaline. Shouting songs in conversation with themself.

Crowd movement driven by furious drums and guitars. Beatdown guitars exploding into intense sonic brutality. Short, explosive songs blasting ferocity.