Portola Festival 2025 Day 2 Review: Dom Dolla, Rico Nasty, and The Prodigy Close San Francisco’s Biggest EDM Weekend

On day two of Portola Festival, I decided to take full advantage of the city’s free Sunday parking. As a San Francisco resident, that little perk feels like a miracle. I drove my own car and parked it near the 24th Street BART station, then caught the festival shuttle straight from there. It saved me a bus and a train, and it set the tone for a slower, easier morning.

That is one of the best things about living here. I pay too much rent, but in return I get front-row access to some of the best culture in the country without ever leaving town. I do not need to get on a plane to feel like I am somewhere exciting. There is always something happening right here.

The Portola shuttle is one of those small luxuries that actually makes a difference. It runs on time, the line moves quickly, and before you know it you are stepping off right at the gates. It is seamless. The kind of local infrastructure that makes you feel lucky to live in San Francisco, even when you are running on festival sleep and iced coffee.

Kreayshawn at the Ship Tent
It felt surreal to see Kreayshawn back on stage again. In the early 2010s she blew up online with “Gucci Gucci” and a string of viral moments that made her the unofficial queen of Oakland internet rap. I always found her hilarious because I actually went to FIDM, the fashion design school she name-drops in her lyrics: “She goes to FIDM, she’s dancing with no rhythm” — and I know exactly the kind of girl she was talking about. That line always made me laugh because, well, she wasn’t wrong.

Her set was pure nostalgia wrapped in Bay Area chaos. Before she even walked out, two performers in full Hello Kitty mascot costumes wearing girly pink crop tops were booty dancing to Dreams by Fleetwood Mac, which is not something you expect to see at 3 p.m. at an electronic festival. It was absurd and kind of perfect.

Then Kreayshawn came out looking almost exactly like she did when she first hit the scene. Cutoff shorts, checkerboard tights, Vans, crop top, and her stomach tattoo reading “Pop Pop” in old English font on full display. It was the kind of outfit that says, “I found my old show clothes in a bin and thought, why not?” and somehow it worked. There was something endearing about it. She looked like your cool party aunt who never really grew out of her look, but you still love her for it.

She ran through “Gucci Gucci” and a handful of other tracks, pausing between songs to joke with the crowd. For someone who has been out of the spotlight for over a decade, she still has real stage presence. Her fans showed up early, and the crowd energy felt warm and grateful. It reminded me that she came up in a moment when artists like M.I.A. were starting to merge pop culture and social commentary, long before that became normal.

By the end she was laughing, shouting out her hometown, and closing with a few very Kreayshawn messages like “Free Palestine” and “Don’t do coke, man, just skip it.” It was messy, funny, and oddly moving. She might be the party aunt who crashed the festival, but honestly, she deserved the invite.

Rico Nasty at the Crane Stage
Later in the afternoon came one of my most anticipated sets of the entire weekend: Rico Nasty. Ever since the lineup dropped I had this one circled in my calendar. Rico has carved out a niche as the undisputed queen of rap rock, a title she has earned through years of experimentation and pure grit. Since 2016 she has been a machine, releasing mixtapes, singles, and features all stamped with her chaotic, electric personality and razor-sharp edge.

When she first broke through, her sound was hard to categorize. Too punk for rap radio, too hip hop for the alt rock crowd, and too ahead of her time for either side to fully get it. But for those of us who did, she was and still is something special. I had a hunch she was working on new material after joining Paramore on stage in 2023, and my instincts were right. Her latest record Lethal, released in May, is a full-force return, a statement album with nearly twenty tracks that stretch her range and confidence in every direction.

My photographer Chloe and I were lucky enough to photograph her backstage for the January 2026 cover of Out Front Magazine, so I got a quick glimpse of her before the set. She was calm, grounded, and absolutely stunning in person. But once she hit the Crane Stage, she was fire. Instead of a standard DJ setup, she brought a live guitarist, which completely changed the energy. Dressed in a black corset, knee-high boots, and boy shorts with a long curly weave, she looked every bit the dominatrix rockstar she was channeling.

She kicked things off with “WHO WANT IT” and “STFU,” tearing through the stage like she owned it. The crowd erupted when she dropped “Smack A Bitch,” and she kept the energy climbing with “Trust Issues,” “Rage,” “TEETHSUCKER (YEA3x),” and “Soul Snatcher.” Every track hit like a punch. The chemistry between her and the guitarist was unreal. They played off each other with this raw push and pull that gave the whole performance a live-wire charge.

The lighting sealed it. It was that fierce pre-sunset glow when the sun drops low and the beams cut hard across the stage, hitting her face and hair just right. The light made her look even more commanding, like she was radiating power instead of reflecting it. The crowd pressed tight to the barricade, shouting every lyric, completely in it.

Rico brought everything: aggression, humor, fashion, wit, and a sense of sovereignty that few artists possess. She’s part punk, part rapper, part rockstar, and she doesn’t belong to one box. The set felt both dangerous and celebratory, like she was rewriting her own story in real time.

By the end, it was clear that this might be one of the last times we’ll see Rico on a mid-sized festival stage. She’s on the brink of something massive. And when it happens, I’ll be able to say I was there at Portola, watching the evolution of a legend in real time.

The Rapture at the Main Stage
Next up was The Rapture, who I only caught for about three or four songs after the end of Rico Nasty’s set. They were playing on the main stage, so I had to run over from the Crane Stage, and by the time I got there they were nearing the end of their set. I had been looking forward to this one because The Rapture were part of the soundtrack of my early club years in the 2010s. I’ve written extensively about Poolside and their bandleader Jeffrey Paradise, and Poolside’s drummer, Vito Roccoforte, is the same drummer from The Rapture.

The Rapture’s biggest hit, “House of Jealous Lovers,” was a defining song of the early 2000s dance-punk era, sitting right alongside artists like Bloc Party, Justice, Tiga, and the DFA Records crew. It was the kind of track that could turn a whole room electric. So I expected a bit of that old magic when I showed up.

Instead, I was surprised to find almost no crowd. For the main stage, it was jarring. Empty pockets of space where people should have been dancing. I wondered if everyone else was at another stage or if this generation just didn’t remember The Rapture. It wasn’t hard to get to the barricade, and when I did, I could tell something was off. The energy felt muted. The lead singer’s voice cracked a little between songs, and his banter came out slow and scattered, like he was somewhere else in his head.

Then he explained why. His best friend had passed away recently. He showed a picture of him on the big screen and almost broke down talking about it. You could feel the grief sitting heavy in the air. I found myself wanting to root for him, to hold space for him, even though the whole set felt fragile.

It was painful to watch, not because it was bad, but because it was so raw. You could see this man trying to push through his loss right there on stage, in front of an audience that was too thin to match the weight of what he was giving. Music can be healing, but sometimes it also just exposes the wound.

It was awkward, honest, and human. I’ve been waiting over fifteen years to see The Rapture, and while this wasn’t the show I expected, it’s one I’ll remember. I hope the next time I see them, it’s under better light, with a bigger crowd, more joy, and more healing between the songs.

Underworld at the Pier Stage
I only caught about twenty minutes of Underworld’s set, but even that short window felt electric. They opened with “Dark & Long (Dark Train)” and rolled into “Two Months Off” and “Cowgirl,” the kind of sequencing that reminds you why they’re dance-music architects, not just performers. The sound was crisp and physical, bass rolling across the pier while strobes and neon outlines carved the fog into a living pulse.

They later dropped “King of Snake,” “Border Country,” “Arpeggio12,” “Pearl’s Girl (Tin There),” and “Moaner,” a run that was one of their hardest-hitting in years. I had to peel away before the finish, but that almost made it more haunting, like catching a glimpse of something massive still unfolding behind you. It was twenty minutes that felt like the start of a dream I didn’t get to finish; I only wish I could have seen them play after dark.

Moby at the Crane Stage

I only caught about half an hour of Moby’s entertaining and well rounded set at the Crane Stage, but even that short window felt like a full experience. He opened with “Everloving,” building it slowly until the whole space felt like it was breathing in rhythm. Then came “Natural Blues” and “Porcelain,” each stretched out with live drums, keys, and guitar that gave them a new kind of weight. It was the kind of set that reminded me how timeless his catalog really is.

The light design was simple and elegant, mostly warm golds and deep blues cutting through the pier fog. It made everything feel cinematic, like watching a scene unfold rather than a performance. I wanted to stay, but I had to leave early to get across the grounds for Dom Dolla’s headlining set. Still, that brief time was enough. It was reflective and calm, almost cleansing in its simplicity, and it left me with a quiet kind of gratitude. Moby sounded exactly how I hoped he would: measured, emotional, and fully in command of his world.

Dom Dolla at the Pier Stage
Up next was the headliner of the night, if not the entire weekend, Mr. Dom Dolla himself. Just two years ago at Portola he played around 4 p.m. on the Crane Stage, so the leap from an afternoon slot on a second stage to headlining the main one is pretty wild. The rise of this young man from Australia has been something to watch, and by the time he came on, the crowd was already massive.

My photographer Chloe was a little bummed because no photos were allowed in the pit, but once the set started it was obvious why. Flames shot up from the bottom of the stage, stripes of fire ran across the front, and the lights cut through the night like electricity. Nobody throws a party quite like Dom Dolla. It was just him up there with his mustache, his big smile, his little bounce back and forth, and that famous finger pointed high. He radiates joy. It feels like nothing can bring him down.

He dropped “Rhyme Dust,” “Eat Your Man,” “San Frandisco,” “Take It,” “Don’t Stop,” and “Dreamin,” plus a few surprises that blended disco, house, and straight-up festival energy. The crowd sang along to every hook, and you could feel the bass in your chest even from the very back of the concrete shipping pier. It was loud, euphoric, and completely communal, the kind of moment where strangers turn into friends for a few minutes at a time.

It was the perfect close to a weekend that had its share of moody, experimental, and introspective sets. Dom Dolla kept it fun, bright, and full of life. The light show hit every beat, the crowd moved as one, and the energy never dipped. For a single DJ, just him, his mustache, his smile, and that index finger, he filled that massive stage with ease.

He reminded everyone why he’s one of the most in-demand DJs in the world right now. His charm, his energy, his ability to pull thousands of people into one collective rhythm. There was no posturing or pretense, just a guy having the time of his life behind the decks and letting everyone else join him.

By the end of the night, you could feel how much people didn’t want to leave. It wasn’t about the hype or the fire or the lights, it was about being in the right place at the right time with the right beat, and that’s something Dom Dolla has down to a science.

The Prodigy at the Crane Stage
Next up was The Prodigy, and this was a set I had been waiting on for years. I first got hooked on them in the mid-2000s and somehow never managed to see them live until now, so this was a big one for me. They were also scheduled to play the next night at The Warfield in San Francisco, but I wanted the full outdoor spectacle with the crowd, the cold, the skyline, and the pier lights.

By the time I got there it was freezing, but the adrenaline kicked in fast. Their sound has evolved into something heavier and more industrial, but it still hits hard. The set pulled from every era of their catalog, including “Voodoo People,” “Omen,” “Light Up the Sky,” “Firestarter,” “No Good (Start the Dance),” “Breathe,” and “Smack My Bitch Up.” It was relentless, all jagged edges and chest-pounding bass, the kind of sound that feels like it’s bending metal and melting circuits at the same time. They have fully leaned into their hardcore industrial side, and honestly, it works. It gives their catalog a new layer of urgency, something that feels surprisingly current in 2025.

The light show was unreal. Rows of green lasers and strobe panels were rigged to every rafter of the stage, cutting through fog and smoke in every direction. The beams moved so fast they almost looked alive, creating shifting walls of light that flickered between chaos and control. When “Firestarter” kicked in, the lasers formed the outline of Keith Flint’s body on either side of the stage, a holographic silhouette that pulsed to the beat of his most famous song. One of the remaining members stood center stage on a raised platform with his head bowed and his hands clasped behind him. For a moment, the whole crowd went still. It was eerie and beautiful all at once, the perfect balance of grief and defiance that defines The Prodigy’s spirit.

I didn’t stay for the entire set because the cold was cutting by then, but I am glad I caught it. After all these years, it was worth the wait. The Prodigy still sound like the future, even three decades in. The way they’ve retooled their sound toward this hybrid of industrial, techno, and raw punk energy is what keeps them relevant. It’s what keeps them dangerous. They haven’t softened with time. They’ve only sharpened.

Across two days, Portola 2025 felt like a living museum of electronic and adjacent music. Bob Moses gave polish and warmth, blending live instruments with coastal dance pop. Christina Aguilera brought legacy and spectacle, reminding a mostly queer crowd why pop still matters. Rico Nasty tore through her set like a rock star, proof that punk and hip hop share the same bloodline. The Rapture offered nostalgia and grief in equal measure, while The Prodigy closed the weekend with pure fire and control. Even the smaller and stranger moments, like Kreayshawn’s afternoon chaos or Despacio’s hypnotic vinyl sanctuary, made the festival feel bigger than its stages.

That is what makes Portola special. It isn’t a mere a festival, but more a snapshot of how electronic music keeps regenerating itself. The old legends adapt, the new artists experiment, and together they keep finding new ways to move bodies and fill the air with sound. This year’s lineup was not perfect, but it was alive. And that is what matters most.