F*CK CNSRSHP

The bullring in Villena was never designed for this kind of insanity — not the four-legged kind, anyway. Yet on this particular night it became something far more dangerous: a punk rock pressure cooker, vibrating with feedback, sweat, ideology and cheap beer. Welcome to F*CK CNSRSHP Festival, a name that doesn’t blink, doesn’t apologise, and absolutely delivers.

This wasn’t just another Spanish punk all-dayer. This was a statement of intent. Born as a middle finger to silence, sanitisation and soft-focus culture, F*CK CNSRSHP has quietly become one of the most important gatherings of heavy music dissent in the country. No VIP areas. No corporate perfume. Just bands, bodies and belief. And Villena’s Plaza de Toros — circular, brutalist, echo-heavy — was the perfect coliseum for it.

First blood. Early afternoon sun still hanging overhead as Loncha Velasco kicked the doors clean off. Opening slots can be thankless affairs, but they played like men with nothing to lose and everything to shout. Raw, street-level punk with teeth, hooks and a sense of humour sharp enough to cut through the daylight haze. The crowd trickled in, beers cracked, necks started nodding. The fuse was lit.

By the time Envidia Kotxina hit, the bullring was waking up properly. Veterans of the Spanish punk trenches, they brought militant energy and ideological clarity — fast, furious songs barked straight into the crowd’s chest. This is protest music that doesn’t dress up for festivals; it shows up ready to fight. Fists were raised. Voices joined in. The pit began to swirl like a political weather system.

Then came Kaos Urbano, and suddenly the bullring felt too small. Anthems of barrio pride and working-class rage detonated one after another. This was communal singing on a dangerous scale — thousands of people yelling lyrics that have been lived, not learned. Kaos Urbano didn’t just play a set; they took ownership of the afternoon, turning the plaza into a single, bouncing organism with boots and convictions.

As daylight softened, Kaótiko arrived like a precision strike. Fast, melodic, relentlessly tight — a masterclass in how to balance punk aggression with razor-sharp songwriting. Decades into their career and still playing like the rent is overdue. The crowd responded in kind: bigger pits, louder chants, sweat flying in arcs. This was festival punk at its most efficient and euphoric.

Then things got heavy. Koma dragged the festival into darker, thicker territory — groove-laden metal-punk hybrids that hit like blunt instruments. The sound deepened, the lights dropped, and the bullring began to feel ritualistic. Heads banged. Faces contorted. This was catharsis music — controlled chaos delivered by a band who know exactly how much pressure to apply.

By nightfall, Segismundo Toxicómano stepped up as elder statesmen and spiritual leaders. Their set was pure legacy punk — defiant, sarcastic, uncompromising. Songs that have outlived governments and trends landed with renewed urgency. The crowd knew every word, screamed them back like scripture. This wasn’t nostalgia — it was continuity.

Midnight. The witching hour. Narco took the stage and Villena lost its mind. Political rap-metal, savage satire, industrial fury — Narco don’t entertain, they incite. The bullring shook under basslines and venomous lyrics, the crowd whipped into a frenzy that felt half concert, half riot rehearsal. If censorship still existed in physical form, it would’ve burst into flames right there.

And finally, the survivors gathered for Porretas — the after-hours uncles of Spanish punk, closing the night with boozy, joyful, bulletproof rock’n’roll. Arms around shoulders, beers held high, voices cracked but proud. It was messy. It was perfect. A communal exhale after twelve hours of noise and truth.

What made F*CK CNSRSHP truly special wasn’t just the line-up — it was the people. Old punks with grey in their beards. Teenagers discovering volume and freedom for the first time. Patches, boots, laughter, scars. No egos. No nonsense. Just a shared understanding that punk is still necessary. In a country where festivals are increasingly polished into meaninglessness, F*CK CNSRSHP stands firm as something real, loud and politically alive. In a bullring built for spectacle, Villena hosted something far more dangerous - Long live the noise!

Words and photos: Rhyan Paul