A Magic Quest Through Levitation 2026
Messa. Photo by Lauren Hernandez
Levitation returned to Austin Sept. 10-13 for four days of psychedelic rock, punk, metal, darkwave and everything strange in between. After initially announcing Radio/East as the hub for its main weekend programming, organizers moved the festival’s Friday-through-Sunday shows south to The Far Out Lounge, where two stages hosted acts including Bikini Kill, Die Spitz, Molchat Doma, Sleep, and a Butthole Surfers reunion of sorts led by Gibby Haynes. Club shows continued throughout the city at other venues including Stubb’s, Mohawk, Elysium and 13th Floor.
And because no Levitation weekend would be complete without a little chaos, Texas weather made its presence known, bringing rain, wind and lightning into the weekend’s festivities.
Texas Sounds Like writer Lauren Hernandez entered the festival with a camera, a questionable sense of direction, and a quest bestowed upon her. What followed was a journey through knights, bards, dragons, teenage warfare, smelly men and some of the loudest music on Earth — all in search of a small glimmer of hope.
Read her story below:
It was a dark and gloomy day. Rain poured as I ran to the entrance of Levitation Fest, and then to the other entrance, ’cause I got lost. I sprinted to the porta-potties, emptying everything in me because anxiety + my period is NEVER a good mix.
I hear heavy bass, shitty drums, and Gibby Haynes’ aged voice muffled over the microphone through the thick plastic walls of the toilet cubicle.
I run out, push my way through the crowd, slam into the barricade, and set my eyes on Him — Mr. Haynes, the knight in grimy armor.
This is a moment I thought I’d never live to see: Gibby Haynes and his big beige box.
Like a freak, he twists the music, throwing Butthole Surfers songs into a portal where they shape-shift and morph into fantastical creatures, just barely reminiscent of their past selves.
A young prince with flowing hair adorned with pastel clothespins catapults secondhand stuffed animals into the roaring snake pit. They are viciously torn and shredded, rats for the feast.
Eventually, Haynes snaps his fingers, wiggles his butt, and Paul Leary and King Coffey materialize onstage. Reunited, I cry as the bards perform “Human Cannonball” and “Who Was in My Room Last Night.”
“Let’s roll back time,” Haynes mumbles into his microphone.
And there I am, transported.
You see, I fell under the Butthole Surfers’ spell in high school. Their visceral art-punk-psycho-rock hurt my ears while simultaneously making me scream with joy. I read about them, listened to interviews, and started seeing glimpses of them everywhere, from ditch shows to documentaries.
I would see bands brandish megaphones, flames, nudity, and projections of gore and just know their divine inspiration stemmed from the Butthole Surfers.
And now, here I am, 6 p.m. on a rainy Friday, skipping work and listening to the knight and the bards, all angels in my mind and heart.
But this was only the first step of my three-day quest.
Months ago, a pigeon knocked its beak against my window in the early morning.
“That’s weird…” I thought. “Pigeons are only in New York…”
But I pushed the window open and grabbed the letter grasped in its beak.
“Hi Lauren! Hope u been ok. Were you wanting to cover levitation? If yes, please write back.
P.S. If you go, there is a crystal you should try to find. It’s like carnelian but much more powerful. It will help bring you out of the depths, instilling you with a lust for life. Good luck.”
Fuck… I’d been in a treatment center so long I forgot bands were still touring.
I checked the lineup online: Butthole Surfers, Bikini Kill, Sleep, and a magic depression-healing stone? I couldn’t say no to all that.
I wrote back a simple, “Sure :)”
And so I journeyed to South Austin alone on horseback, true-crime podcasts blasting in my ears, sent here by my hero, photographer, and friend Oscar Moreno, in search of a crystal.
…
I grin as Haynes speaks sober nonsense.
“I hope you, I just hope you can,” he drawls.
“I have no idea what this song is about, or any other,” he prefaces.
Before I know it, I have seen an hours-long D&D match take place on a swirling stage. Knights brandish megaphones, bards wield guitars and drumsticks, and spells are cast, transfixing the hundreds of jumping bodies.
I blink, and the stage is empty. The hundreds of bodies disperse in an instant.
A sound comes from the other end of the grounds.
I follow it.
…
My ability to make it to the front of a crowd never ceases to amaze me. I know I sound like a narcissist, but I can’t help it. Friday at Levitation was SOLD OUT. Maybe the biggest crowd I’ve ever held a camera in.
It took what felt like years of “sorry” and “excuse me” until I bumped against the filthy barricade, just in time for Die Spitz’s set.
I missed shaking Gibby Haynes’ hand in order to photograph Die Spitz. Never doubt my dedication to journalism.
My notes simply said:
“Die Spitz
Attractive
Fine
Tough crowd
Like actually.”
I enjoyed it not because of the quality of the music, but because of the excitement of the crowd. Die Spitz may as well have been the Holy Grail for the hundreds of teenage femmes who pounced on each other, eyeliner dripping and fishnets ripping as they shouted lyric after lyric after lyric.
Eventually, I had to get out of there. It was war: Girls vs. Fence.
The girls were winning.
They sailed along the top of the crowd to get over. I ducked and swerved, got my shitty pictures, and shoved my way out.
“Don’t fucking push me!” a defensive mom yelled.
I stopped in my tracks.
“IT’S A FUCKING CONCERT!”
I didn’t think the night could get any better. I was lonely and exhausted, but good pictures are like heroin. I just can’t get enough. My camera will flash forever.
Overstimulated, I knelt in the gravel behind a trash can. I shared my apple with the ants and put my headphones in.
Bandits, pirates, kidnappings. The world is evil.
But the crowd never stopped buzzing. All they could talk about that hot night was “Bikini Kill,” “Riot Grrrl,” “Kathleen Hanna.”
Following the rumors, I plunged into the crowd again, swimming toward the stage.
Bikini Kill blares a simple tune, and once again I am back in time. It’s 2022, and my ears are void of protection. My heavy makeup is dripping, my hair is tangled, and I look down as a girl around my age vomits all over my shoes. Goddamnit.
Long ago, Kathleen Hanna served as my sister and I’s God. An icon in a tutu, she inspired us to mosh at punk shows, study our history, and pass zines around our hick school.
We saw her in the flesh in May of our senior year. Our dad by our side, my hands empty, we pushed and shoved and screamed and cried for an hour that night at Mohawk. It was a peak for sure. Things hardly get better than that.
Yet here I am, years later, lonely but not afraid, screaming back lyrics I must’ve kept filed somewhere in my brain all these years.
“Yeah I can be a girl in a punk rock band, or I can be your mom in the kitchen doing some weird shit!”
Bikini Kill has only changed for the better since its founding in 1990. They sing classics and anthems, switching instruments and going on tangents about past and present predicaments.
Hanna goes on about the awful lyrics she wrote when she was younger.
“The bible says…” she speaks, then sings, beginning a multitude of relatable, though laughable, verses.
“FREAKS UP FRONT!” the band chants, and the crowd follows.
The white cis man next to me moves toward the back as more femmes fight their way forward, their armor glowing.
I still don’t know where the fuck that crystal could be. But right now, I’m content as I take the solitary road home, shitty music blasting.
Saturday passes without me.
By Sunday, I am slow and groggy.
I had made my way back to Austin later than I would’ve liked, but just in time for one of the best bands: Elder.
I’d never heard of them before, but they had my jaw on the floor for the entirety of their set.
While the crowd on Friday was all teenage riot, today it’s… smelly men. Sleep is headlining, though, so what could I expect?
As I nestle into the pit, a familiar pigeon comes flying overhead.
I grab the letter.
Oscar is sending news of Saturday, the day of Levitation I skipped out on.
“Sorry so late. Found a pocket of time,” it reads.
Oscar shares news of the British invasion that took place while I was gone, as bands like Novulent, Ditz, and Molchat Doma conquered the stage.
“Why did they bunch up all the UK bands in one day?” he asks. I have no answer. I am jello.
All I know is that Brits bring rain, and Oscar was witness to the flood as lightning and wind struck down upon the festival, ripping apart tents and cutting sets short.
…
Unfortunately, the dragon that evening scorched my notes, incinerating them entirely. But let me recall what I remember from that long and treacherous night.
I saw Elder and The Well, and soon Psychedelic Porn Crumpets appeared on the main stage. The sun was still up, but the crowd was packed and pumped. I was thrilled to see them.
PPC were great and Australian and so happy to be here. They sailed on a long journey and didn’t disappoint. Honestly, I tuned out about halfway through their set, but the crowd never ceased, moshing and brawling until the last note reverberated.
Messa and Uncle Acid put on hallucinogenic sets that shocked the townspeople. As the sun went down, spiraling lights flickered on, shining through the swirling smoke and fog that never dissipated.
I began to grow weary as the bands played on and the constellations shone. I just wanted Sleep.
After what felt like eons, I watched from behind hundreds of heads as bass shook the earth. I always want music to tear me apart, but nothing has ever sounded as good as Sleep live.
It was like I was finally being buried – cold, damp soil caking my limbs. Roots wrapping around my ankles. I closed my eyes and finally stood still. When I opened them, I was front row, banging my head incessantly.
All I have ever wanted is an eternal slumber, and my wish was finally granted.
Then, as I clear the smoke from my eyes, my hero is standing before me, camera in hand.
Well, actually, he’s behind me, fighting the cumbersome pit. Oscar and I lock eyes, and he smiles, quickly opening his camera bag.
Silently, he places a large, beat-up crystal into my hands.
“Thank you,” I try to tell him through the cacophony.
But he is gone.
…
Tomorrow, I’m graduating from an eating disorder treatment center after five months of intensive therapy. I stopped writing and taking pictures for a long time. I didn’t think anyone noticed or cared. Now I peer at the world through my crystal, pushing through never-ending exhaustion and gloom to write for anyone. Some days, it’s worth it.