Pix and words by Ali Williams
Let’s be real: most “anniversary” festivals feel like a branded heritage tour where someone sells you a T-shirt and a memory. ZED50 was not that. ZED50 felt like Brisbane dragging its own music history out into the sunlight, cracking a beer, and saying “Yeah, we built this. And yes, it’s still loud.”
From midday calmly morphing into a restless swirl of amps, synths and blown hi-hats, the Parklands’ verdant lawns and trees framed the crowd of die-hards, day-trippers and curious passers-by. Two stages. No clashes. Trees instead of barriers. People sunburnt and smiling. Punk bands playing to picnic rugs. Legends playing to teenagers. Teenagers playing like legends. The whole thing felt feral and affectionate at the same time — exactly the way community radio should feel. And with a lineup that celebrated the many faces of Brisbane’s underground and indie music life, ZED50 delivered a kind of living snapshot of where 4ZZZ has been — and where it remains pointed.
The band’s in order. No survivors.
Nice Biscuit
Nice Biscuit opened like a psychic cleanse. Shimmering psych-pop, twin vocals floating in odd, honeyed harmony, and rhythm patterns that felt just off-centre enough to keep you from fully relaxing on the grass. On paper, they read “dreamy” — in the flesh, they’re weirder than that. It’s kaleidoscope rock with dirt still under the fingernails.
They have this gift for looking ethereal while the drummer, Kurt Melvin (former founder and drummer of The Melvin’s) was frankly trying to rattle organs. Nick Cavendish on bass sat in this hypnotic groove that made you sway without really deciding to. While guitarist Jess Ferranato rang in pastel colours but still carried bite — like a smile with sharp teeth. Vocally, they don’t belt so much as entwine, which, across a lawn in early daylight, works like a summoning: “Come closer. We’re opening the gate.”
And people did. It’s always hard being the first band on at a big event because half the crowd is still in sunscreen mode and negotiating their first drink. Nice Biscuit handled that by building a little universe and daring you not to walk into it. Weird in the right way. Warm in the right way. A perfect “you are now entering 4ZZZ space” moment.
Velociraptor
If Nice Biscuit was incense and invitation, Velociraptor was “kick the door in, we’re here.” Instant pulse-raiser. Punk-glam swagger, gang energy, loose-hip confidence. The whole upper stage suddenly felt like the laneway behind a pub at 1am, just relocated into the middle of a botanical garden.
This is a band that plays like they’re constantly about to spill off the stage, but magically never actually do. Tight drums, guitars stabbing and jabbing, vocals that lean forward and dare you to keep up. They’ve got that Brisbane scrappiness that says: we don’t need perfection, we just need volume, hooks, and nerve. Which is, incidentally, correct.
The crowd changed when Velociraptor hit. People who’d been lying down stood up. People who’d been standing up leaned in. Suddenly, sunglasses were getting pushed up the hairline because “hang on, I need to actually see this.” It wasn’t polite. Thank god. Sources can also confirm that the plushy Dino birthed itself in a stage dive into the crowd from these guys, partied his arse off all night and was last seen still crowd surfing even as the security was moving everyone out.
Butterfingers
Butterfingers rolled in like a barely legal block party with a sound system running off stolen power. That punk/funk/hip-hop hybrid snarl is still so distinctly theirs — punchline lyrics with infectious, groove-led bounce, and that sense of smartarse menace that made them dangerous the first time around and still makes them dangerous now. Evil Eddie well and truly gave us that rock steady microphone mastery (winky face) delivering bars that were hard and tight while having the audacity to mix it up improv and still making it slap hard.
What makes Butterfingers work live is that they don’t just sit in one lane. One second you’re getting a rubbery bassline that feels like it was smuggled out of a 90s warehouse party, the next second you’re getting a guitar chop that belongs in a sweaty dive punk room, and over the top of it comes this rapid-fire vocal delivery that somehow lands halfway between stand-up comedy and threat.
Nostalgia act? No. This wasn’t “remember when.” This was “we’re still a problem.” The crowd knew the words, shouted them back, grinned while they did it, and you could feel that glut of Brisbane pride hit like humidity. My fingers remained crossed that Zed 50 was the teaser. The pleaser? That they announced shows in 2026. They’re one of my absolute favourite things in this world, and yeah, I’m biased, but that becomes irrelevant when they quite simply epitomise what Aus punk alt rock rap is. They’re the OGs in that scene, and we want more, lots more.
Big Noter
Big Noter arrived and immediately changed posture. Everything hardened. Shoulders squared. Phones went down. This wasn’t a set you film for Stories; this was one you absorb. Big Noter, the politically charged side project of hip hop artist Briggs came with political intent and physical force. Steve Smith on drums hit like riot shields, and the guitars sounded like warnings. The lyrics — and the way they were delivered — didn’t leave much room for misinterpretation. Briggs brought them to life the only way he knows how, with his distinctive voice and raw honesty, bringing it Briggs style. It wasn’t angry for the sake of it. It was angry because it’s 2025, and why wouldn’t you be?
There’s a very 4ZZZ honesty to a band like this. No polish. No corporate smoothing. No “let’s keep it light for the afternoon crowd.” Just pressure, message, rhythm, release. You could feel bodies edge closer almost involuntarily. It was like the day officially clocked over from “fun in the park” to “history has got something to say”. And honestly? That’s essential. Because 4ZZZ at 50 isn’t just about soundtracking parties; it’s about saying the quiet part out loud and then turning it up.
Platonic Sex
Platonic Sex strolled in with this disarmingly casual presence and then hit you with a set that was hooky, emotionally sharp, gloriously queer, and completely self-possessed. They’ve got this way of performing that feels like, “Yes, this is intimate. Yes, this is for all of us. Also, yes, we’re hot and we know it.”
Musically, they sit in that indie/alt/queer-rock pocket that understands melody is more effective when you let it ache a little. Vocals that actually sound human (in the best way — textured, felt, occasionally frayed), guitars that glitter one moment and bite the next, and drums that keep things moving with just enough urgency to stop it ever going limp.
What made them pop live was the attitude. The banter. The sense of permission. It wasn’t preachy “inclusivity messaging” — it was lived-in energy. Come as you are, stay as you are, scream along if you feel like it. And the crowd absolutely did. This is the band you’ll brag you saw “back at ZED50” in two years when they’re headlining rooms and everyone suddenly pretends they were there.
The Flangipanis
The Flangipanis did not show up to be subtle. Fruity punk. Cartoon chaos. Pure, weaponised irreverence. They play fast and sassy and bright, and it works because under all that colour is real muscle. They’re the kind of band that makes you laugh in one line and then, in the next, quietly torch some rotten social structure without even breaking tempo. Vocals spit like a sarcastic flamethrower. Guitars fly around like angry neon budgies. The rhythm section? Locked like scaffolding.
Crowd response was pure joy. Jumping. Arms thrown around mates. Heads snapped forward in that “YES THIS” way. You could feel people getting looser, and being more themselves. The Flangipanis felt like the chaotic heart of the DIY/punk/queer Brisbane scene: defiant, hilarious, fast, necessary. If Platonic Sex hands you acceptance, Flangipanis hands you a glitter-covered crowbar.
Full Flower Moon Band
Full Flower Moon Band took the main stage and, without raising their voice, completely altered the energy field. Where some bands punch you in the sternum, this band seeps in behind your ribs and expands. They deal in big, moody, psych-leaning rock — songs that open like a haze and then slowly unfurl into something almost cinematic. Guitars bloom instead of stab. Vocals stretch out over the top, at times delicate, at times commanding. The drums don’t just keep time; they steer mood.
And here’s the quiet flex: they held a festival crowd in daylight without relying on speed or cheap tricks. People literally sat back in the grass, eyes closed, letting it roll through them… and then somewhere halfway through the set you realise you’ve stood up and you’re fully locked in. That’s not passive listening. That’s hypnosis turning into devotion.
It was one of those “oh they’re for real” sets. You could hear conversations after: “Who was that?” followed by “No, seriously, who WAS that?”
Dancingwater
Dancingwater walked out with this “don’t underestimate us just because the sun’s still up” energy, and by the end of the first track, it was obvious: this is a band you need to take seriously now. Sonically: soulful vocals with grit in the throat, punk tension in the bones, and songwriting that feels confessional without ever going soft. There’s heat in what they do — not just volume, heat. The basslines felt lived-in, the drums hit like urgency instead of aggression, and the guitar sat right between melodic and jagged, like it couldn’t decide whether to seduce you or drag you into the alley and make you listen.
It’s hard to do “intimate” on an outdoor stage. Dancingwater did it by being emotionally direct instead of theatrically dramatic. No performative angst. Just truth with amplification. Easily one of the most quietly commanding sets of the day. Future-problem band.
Tropical Fuck Storm
Then came Tropical Fuck Storm, and any illusion that this was just a nostalgia day evaporated. Live, TFS is less a band and more an incident. Songs don’t so much “start” as “lurch awake.” Guitars claw across each other. Bass lines slither somewhere unholy. Vocals arrive like leaked documents. It’s paranoid, funny, apocalyptic, cynical, poetic, and extremely Australian in that “the world is ending but we’re still going to make art out of it” way.
They don’t care if you’re comfortable. They’re not here to soothe you. They’re here to show you a beautiful mess held together by intent and ridiculous musicianship. It’s chaos in theory, precision in practice. The longer they played, the more you could see faces in the crowd just light up with that “oh THIS is why live music matters” expression. Perfect twilight band. Perfectly wrong in all the right ways.
Party Dozen
Party Dozen is the kind of act that makes you rethink the concept of “band”. Two humans. Enough sound to wake a suburb. Jazz-punk-industrial-noise ritual. It shouldn’t work outdoors in a park. It absolutely worked outdoors in a park. What they do is controlled detonation. Drums go feral but never sloppy. Sax/synth/noise (depending on what weapon is in hand at the time) peels open the air like sheet metal. There’s this sense of joyful annihilation — like they’re not here to entertain, they’re here to spiritually cleanse by blowing out every clogged frequency in your soul.
People pushed forward, wide-eyed. You could feel that “I have no idea what genre this is, but I don’t want it to stop” murmur ripple through the front rows. Moments like that are why ZED50 exists. Commercial festivals book comfort. 4ZZZ books danger.
Regurgitator
Ah the one and only Regurgitator. Holy fucking wow. They hit, and it felt like Brisbane itself walked onstage in human form. With no word of a lie, the sound waves from those amps shot through my body like it felt deliberate, and I liked it. You know them. You love them. You maybe committed minor acts of regret to them in the late 90s. But here’s the thing: they’re still sharp. I’m absolutely convinced that guitarist and lead vocalist Quan Yeomans is, in fact, the elixir that flows through the mystical fountain of youth, and it was first discovered right here in Brisneylsnd.
Their set was a masterclass in bending genres until it begs for mercy. Sarah Lim has been the best addition to the band with her electro-rock bounce on the synth keyboard, then into riffy alt-rock pop chorus on guita,r oooh that sweet sweet hot pink Ibanez had me in love at first strum. Taking a left-turn right into weirdness, Regurgitator know their craft well; they bring professionalism, and experience while simultaneously putting all their winnings on red and hitting play. And the machine pays out. You’re breath is held, but at same time there’s the comfort in knowing these guys are veterans (despite looking anything but like veterans) and they know their shit. Their sensory overload is all delivered with that dry, self-aware wit that’s earned, not faked. It’s playful, yeah — but it’s also tight. They are in ridiculous control of chaos.
What really cut through was how intergenerational that crowd reaction was. Greybeards yelling like it’s 1997. Younger kids losing it like they’ve just discovered their new favourite band. Everyone dancing. Everyone laughing. Everyone shouting along. Regurgitator didn’t just play songs. They re-lit the idea that you’re allowed to be clever, catchy, and deeply strange at the same time.
Screamfeeder
Screamfeeder slid in like a memory that never actually left. Melodic alt-rock shot through with grit, big hearts, no gimmicks. They play like a band that’s been around long enough to trust their own pulse. No panic. No posturing. Just lines that hit you square in the chest and stick. The guitars had that classic warm crunch — not sludge, not polish, that sweet spot in between where emotion lives. Vocals carried a kind of lived-in ache: tuneful, yes, but human first. And the rhythm section was pure backbone.
Crowd energy for Screamfeeder had this beautiful “I’ve loved you for years” flavour mixed with “how did I not know about you until today.” That duality is powerful. It felt like a handover between generations happening in real time. This was a beautiful melodic trip down memory lane for me as I was reminded that I really loved Screamfeeder and why they too formed part of the theme song to my misspent youth.
The Saints ’73-’78
And then finally: The Saints ’73-’78. Not nostalgia. Resurrection.
These are the people who helped invent Brisbane punk when Brisbane didn’t particularly want it invented. These are the songs that made it okay — maybe even necessary — to be loud, political, bleakly funny and defiantly alive in a town that used to prefer none of those things. Live at ZED50, those songs did not arrive politely. Guitars cut like sheet metal. The rhythm section punched holes in the dark. The brass came in hard and unexpected, adding this brassy, swaggering, almost soul-punk attack that made the older songs feel even more dangerous, not less. You know that moment where you realise you’re not watching “heritage rock,” you’re watching an idea still sharp enough to draw blood? That.
The crowd was locked. You could feel reverence, but this wasn’t a museum crowd. This was active, present, shouting, eyes-wide energy. People weren’t just singing along — they were testifying. By the final blasts, you got that electric sense that you’d just stood inside a lineage. This is where Brisbane came from. This is why a station like 4ZZZ exists at all. This is why you can have a day like this and it doesn’t feel like compromise. It felt holy, but beer-soaked.
ZED50 was beautifully imperfect: sunburn that’ll sting tomorrow, sound hiccups between turnarounds, drinks queues that looked like Centrelink lines for the spiritually dehydrated. But none of that dented what it actually was.
It was a living map of Brisbane alternative music — not just now, not just then, but the artery that runs between. You got psych mysticism, glam-punk sleaze, political fire, queer liberation, ecstatic DIY punk joy, widescreen guitar dreamscapes, soul-punk confession, paranoid art-rock, mutant jazz carnage, genre-hacking legends, melodic survivors, and the origin gods of it all… on the grass… in the daylight… for a community station that somehow made it to 50 without ever sanding itself down.
That’s not just impressive. That’s culture.
If you walked out humming, okay. If you walked out laughing, excellent. But if you walked out a tiny bit altered — if you felt plugged into something older and louder than you expected — then ZED50 did exactly what it came here to do.
