Apart from a strangely hollow Saint Motel show and a maybe-too-energetic lashing from Ramones wannabes Bad Nerves, Austin City Limits 2026 ended strong on Sunday. Plenty of pop girlies (Chelsea Jordan, Grace Ives, Audrey Hobert) offset boisterous boy rock (headliners Twenty One Pilots), and our qualms about so-dumb-it’s-smart electronic duo Fcukers quelled when the pair turned up to Tito’s with a live band. Until next year, here’s our final thoughts.
Rum Jungle Plays the Sound of Australia
Aussie City Limits dominated top to bottom this year, from headlining Sydney dance troupe RÜFÜS DU SOL to modeling soul man Don West. Check Melbourne doubling up on Friday atop Radio Free Alice and Amyl & the Sniffers, while New Zealand countered Saturday behind Balu Brigada and Lorde. Sunday saved a bit of best-for-last in New South Wales indie rockers Rum Jungle.
A blustery breeze ruffled the trees surrounding the AmEx stage, 85 degrees ripe for a trademark early-Sabbath ACL showing there. Benny McIntyre’s voice arrived first, accented and rising into the slightly androgynous, echoing Brit-rock frontmen from Bowie on down. His guitar and that of Josh Giles goaded the bouncing bass of Michael Kolmajer and Frazer McDonald’s waterslide drumming. “Last day of ACL, well,” insinuated McIntyre, the group already plying a momentous tempo – one cutting the scenes of your life into a 30-second teaser. Dub it the Barton Springs beat: crisp, refreshing, invigorating.
When they relaxed, the twin axes becoming more percussive and the bass going R&B, Rum Jungle poured some indie rock soul, TSOP for the alt set. One instrumental conjured up a chase sequence from a Halloween frightener, almost King Gizzard, all buzz and fuzz ending too abruptly. Like the fact they released four EPs in their first eight years but two full-lengths in the last 16 months, Rum Jungle’s clearly just getting started in earnest. “Come say g’day,” offered one of ’em. Given Austin’s 14 sister cities include Adelaide, we’re practically neighbors. – Raoul Hernandez
Sunday (1994) Tests the Allure of Toxicity
Paige Turner has a small black cross tattooed under her left eye, just visible under her oversized sunglasses. It fits the Sunday (1994) frontwoman’s ethos and sound, which flirts with a fay coyness covering for dangerous bite. With the rest of the band clad in black, Turner flitted across the stage in all white, Stevie Nicks-twirling as her voice shifted from a floating effervescence to a low and sultry venom.
Opening the Snapchat stage on Sunday afternoon with the airy “Rain,” “Stained Glass Window,” and “TV Car Chase,” Turner’s visions of twisted toxic love swirled within the quartet’s heavy dream pop while a black-and-white video played on background screen. The L.A. starlet swooned with nostalgia against the guitar wash of her partner Lee Newell, who introduced the shoegazier “Our Troubles” by quipping, “I just want to say something, I know the world feels dark at the moment” – before turning away from the mic.
The sparse early crowd drifted along to “Blonde” and the darker, driving “Still Blue,” but the band’s first bad love single “Tired Boy” brought the biggest reaction, especially as Turner emerged onstage with a sign declaring “I Believe You Jane Doe.” Sunday (1994) drips with inviting lightness, but it belies the band’s darker underlying emotional fallout. – Doug Freeman
Chelsea Jordan Serves Coffeehouse Chic
Under the shade of the BMI stage, Chelsea Jordan’s ACL debut had the casual, welcoming energy of a singer-songwriter’s coffeehouse set, or a chic performance at some mythical, foregone Coachella. Barefoot and boho in baggy jeans and a corps cap, the Baltimore-born artist played 30 minutes of smooth, soulful pop to a sizable audience hanging on her every sweetly sung word.
“This is my first festival ever,” the 26-year-old shared, with palpable incredulity, after opener/brand new single “worst case.” Keyboardist Jamie Gelman, guitarist Jack Siegel, and bassist Ryan Baer backed her sitting down, which added to the set’s stripped-back atmosphere – as did its lack of drummer. The easy-listening stylings the USC lacrosse player-turned-musician favors typically turn into lullabies without a beat, but her band – particularly Siegel, who boasts production and writing credits on Beyoncé’s COWBOY CARTER – somehow maintained a sense of buoyancy throughout the singer’s half-earnest, half-irreverent introspections.
Young girls and their fathers, twentysomethings in Jordan merch, and bros on their own all sang along to “halfwaythru” and “picky choosy,” off March EP better late than not at all, and raised their phones to document the Jamaican artist’s cover of Bob Marley & the Wailers’ “Is This Love” in honor of her late uncle, a rasta. After each song, Jordan danced out her nervous energy with a sheepish jig and a beaming smile.
“I don’t wanna go home,” the singer croons in “halfwaythru,” a quietly seething song about dating a loser who wants to leave the function early. “I don’t wanna go home!” Jordan repeated at her half-hour’s end. “Austin is amazing!” – Carys Anderson
Bad Nerves’ Punk Rock Heart Attack
No one moshes out of subtlety, and so pogos punk rock. Young Essex gang Bad Nerves from East England blasted the intro to Ramones classic End of the Century as a walk-on battle cry Sunday across Barton Springs Road at the self-contained Beatbox stage. What followed for an hour confirmed that which Turnstile hinted at the previous two Fridays: ACL’s gotten heavy-curious in its 20s – and maybe especially after cooling on rap and country this year.
Pistoning two guitars on the downstroke, with one stringer and the bassist dressed not unlike Johnny and Dee Ramone respectively, plus a skinsman who once teched for Muppets drummer Animal, Bad Nerves launched the kickdrum at an unceasing, heart-attack pace. Even then, however, within endless blitzkriegs and occasional hardcore interludes, the minute modulation of beat kept ears bleeding. Match that, AI.
“Sitting down?” stopped emcee Bobby Nerves incredulously. “You could be dead tomorrow, what are you doing?” Resting, lads – from elbow gymnastics and knee-high two-stepping. Forty minutes in, amongst blistering originals “Television,” “Radio Punk,” and sub closer “Antidote” – and auspiciously unannounced as a cover song – the band hammered out Ramones scrum “Cretin Hop.” In fairness, 45 minutes or even 35 would’ve sufficed, but then ACL Fest is new at punk and hardcore. – Raoul Hernandez
Grace Ives Leads a Bedroom Pop Sing-Along
With hairbrush-microphone enthusiasm and a theatricality that treated the wind and the cameras like castmates, Los Angeles-based songwriter Grace Ives twirled and sashayed through her 15-song set. Her synth-driven bedroom dance-pop releases have garnered the songwriter something of a critic’s darling status, receiving multiple nods from Pitchfork and Stereogum that’ve translated to a growing fan base – if the eager crowd awaiting her mid-afternoon ACL set is any indication.
Catching the eye of several fans singing along to her diaristic melodies, Ives took a second to thank them personally. “Makes me feel special,” she said, making a heart with her hands. She treated the dancing audience to tracks from across her discography, including unrequited love ode “Mansion, “which she described as “the first song I ever wrote.” Co-producer John DeBold held down a digital throne of keys, synths, and drum pads, and Ives occasionally chimed in on her own set of electronic ivories. The duo are usually joined live by drummer Ben Lumsdaine, but made do with the backing track Sunday. “You guys are making us feel good about that,” Ives said.
After a flamboyant performance of “Mirror” that ended in peals of maniacal laughter from the pink-haired performer, she introduced a new track rippling with rhythmic vocals and a thrumming bass line which Ives said she and DeBold “made the other day.” While her soft-spoken falsetto was occasionally buried in the bass’s reverberations, the punchiest parts of “My Mans,” “Lullaby,” and finale “Stupid Bitches” dazzled with the force of a glitter cannon. – Caroline Drew
Audrey Hobert Is in on the Joke
Indie-pop darling Audrey Hobert brought the unfiltered energy of a sleepover dance party to ACL, turning one of her final album-cycle performances into a delightfully chaotic exercise in self-expression. Dancing freely, strutting across the stage, and punctuating songs with impromptu poses, she carried the earnest theatricality of a girl who has never once worried about looking uncool. She opened in a comically oversized trench coat, bright red scrunchie, and fake nose-and-mustache disguise, climbing atop a step ladder to give herself some extra height before launching into “I like to touch people” with a banjo in hand.
Beneath the antics, Hobert’s upbeat indie gems offered a knowing take on navigating relationships as a twentysomething and figuring out where you belong. “Don’t go back to his ass” landed like advice from a friend who’s heard this story too many times, while “Bowling Alley” captured the nerves of wondering whether you’re actually wanted at a party. Before “Wet Hair,” the singer recalled being rated a 3 out of 10 by boys in middle school. “I was never a three,” she insisted. “I was a beautiful child.” The funny, candid confession gave the performance a tender center, tracing the distance between the insecurities we inherit and the confidence we grow into.
Hobert closed the show with a second rendition of viral hit “Sue Me,” asking the audience to put their phones away before the track began. During the bridge, she bounced on a mini trampoline, striking airborne poses with every beat drop. It was an exuberant finale for a set that turned awkwardness into its own kind of star power. – Miranda Garza
Saint Motel Brings an Empty Energy
As Saint Motel took the Miller Stage at 5:20pm on Sunday evening, the sunsoaked Weekend Two crowd was fading. By the end of the L.A. sextet’s 12-song, 55-minute burst, though, the field felt re-energized.
Emerging in a white cowboy hat and burgundy Western suit, frontman A.J. Jackson immediately implored fans with the clapping, sax-blasted “Move” and grooving chant of “Destroyer,” both from 2016’s saintmotelevision, and set the tone for the set. It’s a high octane, anthem-inducing posture, pushing the edges of the Arctic Monkeys and Franz Ferdinand, but for all that it accomplishes in energy, most of Saint Motel falls flat on substance. Maybe that’s the point when you’re just trying to rally a crowd, but the sheer banality of the lyrics in songs like “Fine Wine” or “Sweet Talk” or stream of bad pickup lines in “Van Horn” undercut the legitimate bops.
Still, given that little in the setlist drew on last year’s Afterglow, the songs seemed selected for festival bangers, which Saint Motel delivered by digging back into “Cold Cold Man” and “My Type” to close. Jackson worked the crowd with an outsized charisma, even jumping the barricade to run among the fans. Extra credit for effort and succeeding at the energizing mission, even if it may have been fleeting and forgettable. – Doug Freeman
Fcukers Bring the Party
Every ACL attendee under 27, or at least those with an eyebrow piercing or baby bangs, descended on the Tito’s tent Sunday evening to catch reformed indie rockers Shanny Wise and Jackson Walker Lewis craft hooky electronic music as Fcukers. With Rhythm Luna pounding a real drum kit and DJ Dwells scratching skittering, old-school samples beside them, the Brooklyn baddies’ UK garage-inspired creations, already infectious on record, resounded louder and livelier in Austin.
Tracks from March’s debut full-length Ö flew by as primary vocalist Wise pranced across the stage like an elvish club kid and Lewis, in Timbs and Keith Flint pigtails, alternately crouched in a boxer’s stance to key dirty bass synth and hopped down from his riser to criss-cross his bandmate with a bass guitar. Aggressive house beats (“Play Me”), jungle grooves (“Shake It Up”), and dub experiments (“TTYGF”) all inspired a mass bounce, while Portishead-evoking trip-hop cut “Feel the Real” slowed down with squalling synthesizers and a Wise-plucked bass line.
The evacuation of an inexplicable legion of what seemed like 12 year olds a few songs into the hourlong set had little effect on the chorus of audience members chanting along to Wise’s simple, reverb-drenched refrains across “I Like It Like That,” “L.U.C.K.Y.,” and, of course, “if you wanna party, come over to my house.” Fcukers’ house must be Zilker Park. – Carys Anderson
Twenty One Pilots Close the Festival With a Victory Lap
More than a decade after Blurryface helped turn Twenty One Pilots into arena-filling headliners, the duo got the last word at ACL. Opening with “Overcompensate,” Tyler Joseph bounded onto the stage in a balaclava as Josh Dun supplied the pounding percussion to match. With last year’s Breach providing much of the show’s backbone, the Ohio natives moved between newer material (“The Contract”) and fan favorites (“Stressed Out”) without letting up on the momentum.
The set reached cinematic heights during “Jumpsuit,” when Dun carried a lit torch to center stage before the track erupted in pyrotechnics. The theatrics continued as the drummer climbed a ladder to a towering platform for “Drum Show” and “RAWFEAR,” while Joseph crowd-surfed atop a platform held up by the audience. The drama gave way to “Drag Path,” as the screens drained to black-and-white and the stage lights dimmed, leaving the torch as the performance’s lone source of color.
Despite the production’s visceral intensity, the twosome made room for playful detours. “Shy Away” offered synth-drenched dynamics, while a bridge cover of Milky Chance’s “Stolen Dance” caught the crowd by surprise. During “Ride,” the audience powered through the song’s rapid-fire verses before Joseph brought security guard Beaty onstage to sing the chorus alongside him. “Tally” folded Cher’s “Believe” into its bridge before a “Seven Nation Army” cover, introduced by a clip of Jack White, swapped the original’s “From the Queen of England to the hounds of Hell” lyric for “From the Queen of England to ACL.” The pair soundtracked their farewell with “Trees,” crowd-surfing on separate platforms as they pounded out the closing cut on snare drums, bringing the festival’s final night to a thunderous end. – Miranda Garza
