Resonate Suwannee 2025: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Became the Glitch
[Photos courtesy of Hunter Nicole Bryant]
Resonate Suwannee took over the Spirit of the Suwannee Music Park May 15–17 for another three-day plunge into bass, bliss, and beautiful breakdowns—technical or otherwise. A gathering ground for fans of livetronica, psychedelic bass, and even jam-fusion funk, Resonate delivers not just music but also the kind of collective weirdness that turns strangers into family and small moments into sacred ones. This year felt even more electric—for the first time, my wife and I both came not just to attend but also to create. While I made some noise and wrote this very article, she documented the weekend through her lens as an official photographer for MusicFestNews.com. The synergy was surreal. This year, we came not just to witness it—but to play, collaborate, and finally archive it.
DAY ONE – INITIATION BY COLLISION
I arrived at Spirit of the Suwannee Music Park ready for the familiar high-strangeness of Resonate. What I wasn’t expecting was a car to immediately crash into a tree next to our camp. The driver emerged like a folk hero from the dust: “Call 911,” he said, then grinned, “I’m okay.” The tree, the car, the shrug — it was all a glitch, but one that reminded me: this is Suwannee. We do not fear the unexpected; we honor it. I hadn’t been to the park since the short visit to perform with S.P.O.R.E. during Hulaween 2021. Time flies: I have a 3-year-old son now; I’m married; I’m no longer a member of S.P.O.R.E. But looking back it was a peak experience for me after years of spending quality time at the Spirit of the Suwannee building rapport with the holy dirt. I knew on the paved road to this festival that it would be different, yet the same. A collision juxtaposed with transcendence.
At media check-in, I hugged Bryan Edward. This was notable because we were once polar opposites on social media—antagonists, in fact. But standing in the sun, we dropped our digital swords and shared a moment of real, mutual respect. “I guess when you love the same things in life,” I told him, “you’ll keep crossing paths.” I am certain Bryan went on to capture some of the best photos of the weekend. That hug mattered.
A young sister and brother near the Porch Stage were vending jewelry and drawing caricatures. I promised Carter the Cartoonist I’d bring a friend back for a portrait. Spoiler: I ghosted him until Day 3, then made good. We beat the heat with pimento cheese sandwiches—Southern delicacy turned survival ration. We caught Beats Antique, stripped to their primal bones. Raw rhythm, no distractions. The first clean signal through the psychedelic haze.
Then Lotus. A friend complained they didn’t sound “Florida enough” — meaning, not dirty enough, not enough sonic grime. But I found the set transcendent. Tim Palmieri shredded guitar like it was a language, and the brothers behind him were pure chemistry. One of my favorite Lotus sets ever. Sometimes precision is filth.
STS9 closed the night like a glitch in gravity. Their set wasn’t perfect—it was interdimensional. Nothing else mattered. The bass levitated us. Their set felt like a portal—their openness, their presence, a reminder: we are not where we were before. We are here now.
Somewhere in the night, my friend Cabe entered a zipper-chewing K-hole and eventually announced, “I had to see what it was like. Now I know I never have to do it again.” I love that man. We don’t recommend ketamine, but we do recommend brutal honesty. Turns out he personally missed both the Lotus AND Tribe sets.
DAY TWO – WATER, WHALES, & WORM WISDOM
First mission of the morning: find a working shower. Part of the park was out of water, but I wandered deeper and struck gold. A single functional shower became my temple of renewal. Sometimes a clean slate requires literal soap.
Back at camp, a tongue drum passed from hand to hand like a ceremonial torch. Its vibrations reached deeper than language. We took turns playing it like we were rewriting the source code of the weekend. A slow-motion drum circle of emotion.
The heat reached mythic levels. So we climbed ladders in whale costumes, because logic is the least interesting drug here. At some point that afternoon, I ate a modest handful of mushrooms—just enough to tint the music in liquid edges and let the forest breathe a little louder.
Somatoast’s downtempo lullabies led us into Papadosio, who came like thunder. The Brouse brothers and crew synced with the crowd in a way that felt cellular. Connection through chaos. Then Tribe (STS9) returned and brought the goblin out of me. I danced like I was debugging my soul, swaying and bouncing left to right. The arpeggiators took control of my existence. I thought back to my first STS9 show at Blackwater Music Fest nearly 15 years ago. That was the night I fell in love with jamtronica, Spirit of the Suwannee, and music festivals as a spiritual practice. And here I was again, full circle, with better shoes and worse knees.
Over on the Porch Stage, Ott.’s sound system was failing. But instead of derailing the experience, it created a new one. “Must be some new dub mix FX technique,” I said to Cabe. We laughed, but it was true. Sometimes what breaks you builds the vibe. We and a few thousand others nearby were all so connected it didn’t matter. The imperfections made it feel alive—chaotic and communal. Who has time to criticize the temporary? The problem was quickly fixed by production, anyway.
Shpongle was our redemption story. Years ago, at Hulaween, my (now) wife and I missed his set thanks to an overly experimental acid trip that taught us that trees can talk but don’t always make sense. This time? We made it. We danced. We got Shpongled properly.
After 2 a.m., I brought out Zero Context for a pop-up campsite set at the Bird Sanctuary Bar, hosted by some friends who love live music and community-building. Riley O’Brien from Sauce Pocket on drums, Cabe Crisler of Mutant Fusion Collective on bass, me on synths, looping and triggering samples curated for the moment. Then Sneezy members appeared. Mike Healy from Papadosio showed up and jambushed us with Asher Hill of HealySide. What started as an idea turned into a three-hour fusion jam in front of 250–300 people who stuck around long after the main stages fell quiet. It was music that depended on the situation. And the situation was pure magic. Then I joined Sneezy again for their impromptu floor set—when the band got shut down, they just kept going. Brett O’Connor handed me the mic for a rap verse while Danny Bauer laid back on his keytar in conspiracy with Destiny Pivonka on her mean sax. What is life? How does it grow?
After our set (around 5 a.m.), I met Forrest Tate, a DayDreamFarmer from St. Pete. “We need more of us,” I told him. “No gates to keep. Just more music and art to promote.” I meant every word. He nodded like a man who waters his ideas daily. Together we build this life in our collective vision. Everyone is a part.
Eric Kaufman said nearby: “The dolphins were being conjured during those jams. Dogs were smelling the Past.” Cabe, ever the prophet, looked into the fire and said: “I’m not gonna do the worm tomorrow… I am gonna be the worm.” That was the moment I stopped worrying and loved the glitch. This would become my mantra.
DAY THREE – FULL CIRCLE, FULL GLITCH
We offered breakfast bacon to a wandering cop. He declined. Then returned. “I’d be a cannibal,” he said… and drove away on his golf cart chuckling. Resonate logic. Sauce Pocket opened the amphitheater with sax-driven psychedelic funk. Algorythm broke our mental algorithms. Ott. redeemed his gear and transcended again, and 5AM Trio erased the concept of clocks. The crowd was one massive vibration all weekend.
I reunited with Casey from Guavatron at camp and listened to tech-house tracks in the shade. Carter finally drew my caricature—redemption achieved. I looked handsome. Cabe looked like a worm. Thought Process Live Band brought hip-hop electronica. Then ’Dosio returned for another soul-cleansing set. As they played, I realized: this isn’t homecoming. It’s rebirth.
Opiuo was a sonic circus ringmaster, like an electronic orchestra with a madman at the helm. I was riding another gentle wave of mushrooms by then, and the music bent around my thoughts like a hall of mirrors in zero gravity. And Detox Unit? Nothing prepared me for Detox Unit. His festival-closing set glitched everything—notes, samples, my entire sense of rhythm. It was Prefuse 73 meets Aphex Twin in a Suwannee vortex. Psy, trap, dub, house, IDM, nostalgia-core—all melted into a matrix of syncopated synesthesia. The crowd pulsed like fireflies caught in a feedback loop of joy. I danced like my body understood code. My body responded without asking. Before nodding off, we caught Sauce Pocket back at it at BS Bar keeping the community in sync for the last hours of the morning before we all have to plug back into “reality”.
EPILOGUE – THE GLITCH IS THE SOURCE
“Comfort is temporary,” I scrawled in my notebook. But loving the glitch? That sticks with you. Rebirth? That lingers. Writing this recap felt a lot like the festival itself—unpredictable, joyfully chaotic, and ultimately cathartic. There were missed cues and magic recoveries, broken cables and spontaneous communion. Resonate Suwannee reminded me that the best moments are never the ones you plan—they’re the ones you surrender to. Somewhere between the music, the malfunctions, and the impromptu jams, I stopped worrying about perfection. I stopped needing things to go “right.” I let go, leaned in, and became part of the glitch itself. And honestly? I’ve never felt more in tune.
Thank you to Scott Hopkins & MusicFestNews.com for trusting me—an artist, a scene-stirrer, a guy who’s booked over 3,000 shows at Dunedin Brewery—to write his first festival review. It means something to cross the wires between performer and documentarian. To witness the beauty from both sides of the stage and to finally put words to the moments that defy them. The errors, the surprises, the weird delays—they weren’t problems. They were design features.
Next time you’re worried it’s all going off script, remember: the glitch isn’t the end of the story. It is the story.
Just be like Danny from Sneezy: go after it. And if you’ve ever needed a sign to come dance in the moss, lose track of time, and rediscover joy in the weirdest, most beautiful ways—Resonate Suwannee will be waiting for you next year.
