Dekmantel 2026 Report: The Best of the Fest – Warungku Terkini

As someone who has been going to festivals for nearly a decade, a good barometer for how much I’m going to enjoy the next few days is the friendliness of the environment. Before I even set foot on Dekmantel’s campgrounds of Amsterdam Bos, I noticed a fascinating mix of seriousness and easygoingness during their city programming Thursday night. In the basement of Paradiso, a converted religious building in the city center, I walked in looking for the stage SnPLO were performing on, only to realize the Montreal crew had decided to set up in the middle of the room. Their gear—a massive collection of synthesizers, drum machines, and twinkling LEDs—nearly filled up the entire room. Seated in black office chairs, they nonchalantly swiveled from one module to the next.

As a couple of publicists and I neared them, one of the performers turned around to greet one of my colleagues, saying, “Hey! Sorry I didn’t answer your text,” as if he wasn’t currently busy playing a five-hour set. A six-pack of Heineken and a giant bag of Doritos sat at their feet, a stash they indulged in throughout their set. At one point, a guy from the crowd walked up to them and requested a chip, and at this point I counted the seconds until they just passed the Doritos bag around the room. The music didn’t suffer from this nonchalance, as they locked into a satisfying minimal groove before slowly transitioning into acid house. The set was so enjoyable, in fact, that a drunk guy with a man bun was inspired to blow the producers a kiss goodbye as he left the room.

Sander van der Ven

Dekmantel is known to operate carefully and sustainably. The food offerings are vegetarian, dancers barefoot stomping in the grass are a common sight, and the festival is primarily a daytime event, with the last sets ending at 11 p.m. (There is an afterparty program that extends into the morning, but being that it’s a $40 Uber away from the campsite, it’s unclear how many people make the trek downtown.) The week attracts a crowd more diverse than I’m accustomed to seeing at a single festival—Zillenials in pixie cuts and tiny glasses, fashionable gays in neon mesh shirts, goths with shimmery raccoon eyes, Coachella-ready girls in flowy skirts and designer boots that look too expensive to be within 100 feet of a festival ground.

What was compelling about the festival, though, is that it brings dancers of various creeds together off the strength of incredible music. I felt this acutely in The Loop on Friday night, where Skrillex and Brazilian producer RHR packed out the 6,000-capacity outdoor stage with couples in gauges and black band T-shirts, raver girls, and one neon green-haired person who wore a shirt that read: “DON’T TOUCH ME I’LL CUM.” As Skrillex and RHR step into the booth, a man with Skittle earrings and a shirt covered in colorful geometric art turns to a girl who had just shimmied her way to the front and asks, “Who’s playing again?” She responds, slightly annoyed, “Skrillex.” “WOO Skrillex!” he howls toward the booth.