Item: Field Maneuvers Festival 2025
Rating: 8
Author: Sanjay Bloor

The messaging leading into last year’s edition made it sound as if the organisers were willing to wind down; last year’s exceptional edition however seems to have ignited a new flame, leaving a foot in the door for future editions. Defiant as ever, that door has now fully swung open. FM is dead, long live FM.

The festival has been in the same (unannounced) location since the pandemic, and it feels very comforting being back on Friday afternoon. The surroundings are gorgeous: trees stand tall, enveloping the site; the lake is serene; the air is fresh. It’s only a couple of minutes of migration from the campsite to the fray, meaning group admin is kept to a minimum: helpful as our crew is about 15 deep, most returning ravers. I wander over to drink it all in while it’s still quiet – “See you down there”.

During the day, the main stage sits by the lake. But the stunning scenery is not the only thing that catches the eye. Three large pink canvases are pinned to the right of the stage, messages hanging proud and clear: “Free Palestine”, “Protest Trans Youth”, “Queer Existence is Resistance”. To the left of the stage, the hanging mirrors play with the final dusky hours of the sun. Pride and Palestinian flags fly in the wind. It is a reinforcement of the power of community, particularly the one here. It is a statement of the unity between us as humans. It is a reminder that on the dancefloor, everyone is equal.

I only get a few seconds with my thoughts before my dear friend comes sprinting onto the dancefloor, drawn like a moth to a flame, as Kelis’ A Capella is broadcast across the intimate site. The crowd begins to swell as people trickle in, large contingents travelling up from London after bunking off work at 3pm. A rotation of DJs representing the Organics and Camp Trans takeover fly through well-known tunes, swerving from Bodyrox to Seal via Nirvana: we can appreciate the gravity of the world around us, but also appreciate the escapism, nostalgia, and comedy that the music provides.

Our first venture into Sputnik is at 9pm for Tia Cousins. Sputnik is a sweaty, smoky, dusty, laser-filled dome – I love it. Tia is a master at the build-and-release, responsible for some of my favourite FM moments over the past few years. She’s playing for The Gun’s takeover, the beloved Hackney institution that sadly recently shut its doors. Unfortunately it’s a little tricky to lock into her set; it feels like everyone is giddy and excitable but it means the crowd doesn’t really settle down for about an hour, the sound system struggling against the hubbub. Still, Model 500’s No UFOs is a nice treat amongst the build, with the release finally synchronising the crowd: Scissor Sisters’ Filthy Gorgeous is an absolute riot.

The next set is one that’s double circled in my booklet. “Parris: FWD» set” – the effortlessly cool London DJ paying homage to the legendary club nights where dubstep was forged and evolved. This is in the main stage, which has now moved indoors now that night has drawn in. Parris stays true to the (highly romanticised) picture of FWD» nights that I have in my mind’s eye: meditative, dark, moody. The ever-futuristic sounding Alien Mode is like catnip to the crowd on the stroke of midnight. The playful visuals are an entertaining juxtaposition: “Is that Judd Trump!?” I overhear as a waistcoasted breakdancer appears on screen, graphics lifted straight from a PS1 game.

After that, we settle into Laika for a few hours of breaks courtesy of FM favourites Lmajor, Angel D’Lite and Joe Nonlocal. The stage is heaving, sweat dripping from the tipi roof. No sound issues here; the system is loud. The festival is getting a bit sillier. The programmes this year fold out like OS maps, providing continuous giggles throughout the night. A knockout 3am drop of The Prodigy’s Voodoo People sends the Laika crowd into a frenzy, the crowd barely thinning until the set finishes at 4. The migration then is to The Pack It Inn, the on-site pub, which is hosting some pretty big names this year, adding a fourth stage to the mix. Faff are on Friday closing duty, the pub is packed like sardines, creaking at the seams – I dip out for the night, grateful that it’s only a short stumble home.

Saturday is a bit of a slow start for us, only properly kicked into gear by Fencing Crew in Sputnik in the early afternoon. Former staff who helped set up previous editions of the festival, Fencing Crew are four wide on the stage, two members alternating on the microphone, hyping the crowd up, taking family photos of the crowd during a cut of Duke’s So In Love With You. Fragma’s eurotrance banger Toca’s Miracle closes out the set, hands aloft, sweaty hugs deployed, hangover gone. Sputnik sounds much beefier today, thankfully.

It’s all about the House of Garage takeover for the next few hours. Sofa Sofa, one of the legends who helps run FM, gets on the decks next, followed by A for Alpha, both stirring the crowd up for two big hitters: Big Ang and Jeremy Sylvester. Big Ang – dancing her way on stage, wearing a self-branded vest – rides this wave to full effect. Sputnik has a queue for the first time, as the punters sense this is the place to be for a joyous and silly afternoon. In quick succession Ang spins Superstylin’, a bassline edit of Flo Rida’s Low (the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd attempting to hit the floor is quite something to behold), a mashup of Pinkpantheress and Benga & Coki, and 2022 number 1 smash hit B.O.T.A. It’s definitely cheese, but it’s expertly weaved, with Big Ang giving it large to the crowd – she gets it. One of those sets you’re half praying the FM team adds to their archives, and half praying it’s forever a hazy memory.

Jeremy Sylvester tones the silly down a little, his tunes a little more wobbly. This is the only outing of Tessela’s Hackney Parrot I hear this year, shortly after yet another Prodigy tune: No Good. Big Ang is down the front with an electric fan, high fiving the fans, dancing between the decks and the barrier. Naturally, Sylvester plays Big Ang’s early millennium banger It’s Over Now in homage. It’s great to see the FM reach to names like these, lineup drop day still being exciting, blending old favourites with the new with a sprinkling of legendary status in there, too. Not bad for a 1000-odd capacity festival.

It’s become dark by the time we leave Sputnik, and a food break and reset is much needed. There’s takeovers from Tasha’s excellent label Neighbourhood in Sputnik as well as Sheffield’s Gut Level running Laika until close. Unashamedly for me, it’s a 5 hour FM tent lock-in for me while Hyperdub take charge. Five Years of Hyperdub is one of those albums I used to play in my bedroom as a teenage gamer, that stood far apart from most of my musical taste back then. Seeing Cooly G, Ikonika and Kode9 on the lineup drop was a treat, especially having never seen the former two.

Cooly G kicks things off, the tempo dropping from the last few hours in Sputnik. It builds. The final half an hour of this set might have been my musical highlight of the festival – the tempo shifted, the visuals intensified (the flashing “hyper hyper / dub dub / sub goes / wub wub” a personal favourite), the constantly shifting drum patterns invited you to lock in, a latin nod – modern Hyperdub at its finest. Ikonika continues along this line, a highly contorted clock-strikes-midnight drop of Amerie’s One Thing reminding the crowd to have a giggle. Label boss Kode9 closes out with a lot of tempo shifting, hitting DJ Rashad and a Strawberry Fields Forever sample amongst some intense jungle and footwork. It’s hard work at times – the payout is good when it hits – however in retrospect I probably wasn’t in the mindset for it compared to his headline set a few years ago (which was mind-blowing). I don’t stick around for Aya’s 3-5am set as a result, but I’m told the crowd was rewarded with some happy hardcore: you win some, you lose some.

Sunday is overcast but not rainy, which means we’re back outside. It’s all about Dalston Superstore today: sloppy, queer, fleshy, extravagant. They’re curating from 12pm to 1am. Before I’ve sat down to eat my breakfast we hear classics Valley of the Shadows, Voodoo Ray and, uh, Crazy Frog’s Axel F. Following on from that, Ryan Lovell brings a ridiculous bag of mid-2000s R&B edits which re-kickstarts the party. This is not a day for headsy picks: we’re having a sing song. Hop in.

An afternoon of pints, (terrible) darts, and the annual pub quiz breaks up the DS takeover for us, but the party is still heaving by the lake. Gillette’s Sex Tonight is the final tune played outside when we do finally rejoin the fracas, the crowd lapping both it and the on-stage dancers up. When we move inside the visuals crack everyone up: it’s Ibiza themed, with logos of classic clubs past and present appearing on screen, alongside - you guessed it - the “final boss”. And Henry Hoover, of course.

Hannah Holland and Dan Beaumont go back to back to kick us off, as the stage gets busy with Superstore dancers. The two of them have fun with the crowd, teasing Blue Monday in but never actually dropping it. Our whole gang is together, towards the back left, next to the backstage exit (and most importantly, a breeze) – tops are off, and the FM tent is steamy. Their set closes with Underworld’s Dark Train followed by a dreamy remix of Bjork’s Hyperballad. Isabella follows. The handheld fans do nothing. “You wouldn’t support a genocide” in the style of those cinema adverts flashes on screen. Nobody wants to leave - the re-entry queue isn’t the place to be. Isabella’s cleverly built up set is only set back by the sound cutting out.

On closing duties is Midland. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing him close out Genosys at Glastonbury a couple of times and it’s always been soulful and fun - today is no different. The biggest singalong of the weekend is unexpectedly in this set, ABBA’s Lay All Your Love On Me. Only a couple of minutes later, at half past midnight, it seems like the set is ending; you can almost hear the anxiety and fear amongst the crowd: “Monday is coming”. We do get another 30 minutes: less mixed and more fade-one-in-fade-one-out, spinning typical Midland 80s tunes, closing out with – of course, read the room – Madonna, and Nothing Really Matters.

To be honest this stop-start ending did sap the energy a little bit, but maybe by design. It’s a full-on weekend, and while in the moment I feel ravenous for more, the second the cool night air hits, I’m pretty happy to head back to camp. People pile into the pub, little gatherings around speakers go on until the early hours - it’s nice. The organisers have created something truly special, where the attendees are connected, and feel like something bigger. You can’t help but feel like the people behind FM see the community as an essential part of the festival – whether that’s letting old hands play out tunes in Sputnik, the multiple not-on-the-lineup-this-year DJs in attendance, or trusting three idiots to look after their pub quiz.

On a personal level, it may not have had the musical highs as previous years, but one thing is for sure: FM recharges that political battery like not much else does. This is a safe space for the intersectional crowd, this is a place where self-expression is encouraged: the same faces come by year on year, usually grinning ear to ear. This party nearly called it quits, but it’s too important (and frankly, too fun) for that to happen. This party, whilst built around the music, is about more than that.