Swiss festivals are small, glittering jewels – each different from the next. Some hug the lakeshore, others light up city streets : Montreux, Festi’Neuch, L’Estivale… and then there’s the mountain rendezvous that draws lovers of stoner rock, noise-driven alternative, and everything in between. Palp’s world famous Rocklette.

For me, La Rocklette – Tome 1 with Melvins was a glorious throwback, a window wide open onto the soundtrack of my youth – those years of US noise, grunge, and sludge, with a shoegaze undertow : Sonic Youth, Nirvana, Pond, Swervedriver, My Bloody Valentine, Ride, and, of course, The Pixies.

Melvins came on after Lausanne’s instrumental powerhouse Monkey3 at the Couvert du Goly. The crowd – mostly dressed in black and speaking Swiss German for the larger part – gathered by the small natural location in Bruson within the Val de Bagnes, the sounds of the afternoon spread out in the valley, the landscape is a postcard perfection. The temperature is good, the scent of raclette cheese unavoidable, and the uphill walk to the stage is short and forgiving. We are in a mountainous twilight zone. Before launching in, Melvins took their time fine-tuning the toms and snare of their twin drum kits – Dale Crover’s and his perennial co-pilot Coady Willis. Frontman Buzz Osborne, the band’s cartoonish, electric-haired figurehead for over 40 years, surveyed the scene. The bassist Sreven Shane McDonald – tall, rangy and member of Redd Kross – wore his “Mountain Dude” hat with a mix of swagger and detachment. The band radiated presence.

For the rock historians among us, the Cobain connection was never far from conversation. Kurt had learned his first guitar riffs from Buzz, and even formed Fecal Matter with Crover before enlisting him as Nirvana’s original drummer. The spirit of Kurt Cobain wanders around. To a maximum joyful feeling. They opened with Working the Ditch – two drum kits locked in, hitting with the precision of a Basel Tattoo parade. Heads started nodding in the front rows. The seriousness and happiness of delivering this music was palpable. As an English football philosopher might say, “Music isn’t a matter of life and death – it’s much more important than that.” That applies to the concert ritual that unfolds in front of us.

When The Bloated Pope kicked in, the crowd turned into a slow, surging tide. Crowd-surfers floated over the meadow like offerings to the mountain gods, while the grazing cows, unbothered, seemed to chew in rhythm. The Melvins played with tempo and atmosphere, building a steady, magnetic connection to this colourful gathering. My neighbour – who’d seen Melvins ten times across several countries – was in his element. Julien sailed over my head in a moment of human flight; I helped set him down. The set was tight, deliberate, and bristling with energy, with Buzz’s vocals riding over Coady Willis’ bright, high-pitched percussion accents.

During the break, I talked with Hélène, Momo, Anthony, Andrea, and Julien – Lausanne locals who live for this particular kind of Valais magic. We swapped notes about the Sunset, a bar whose tiny, smoky concert space somehow hosts world-class metal acts in Martigny, down on the flat land. Squeezed in shoulder to shoulder, the central Valais can feel like the epicentre of the rock universe – especially during Rocklette.

Last Sunday, I made the steep hike across fields to catch the last concert of Rocklette 2025: DIIV. It was a mission fuelled by conviction and the desire to move mountains – because here, you are small against nature, but the challenge is half the fun. At four o’clock, the Levron church bells rang out; we still had 3.5 kilometres to go, winding up the trail. On foot? Yes – and with a brisk pace, we could make it in 30 minutes.

DIIV were spellbinding – a dream folded into feedback. They pushed further into their shimmering, rhythmic noise-pop than I’d ever heard, building songs like clockwork heartbeats, hypnotic and sure. Blankenship, my personal high tide, arrived near the end, followed by the anthem Doused. They laced dark, minor chords through choruses that pulled you into a gentle sway – wrapped in cool mountain air, brushed with late-afternoon gold. It felt like drifting in a warm, salty current, then waking in an icy alpine lake, sunlight fracturing on the surface. DIIV have a gift for stretching tight three-minute pop into elongated spells, letting the jingle-jangle guitars of indie’s collective memory ring out like a manifesto. Between songs, their pre-recorded banter swung from sly merch plugs to direct, almost disarming, mechanical exchanges with the crowd, one of their rare strengths though. Zachary Cole Smith, clumsy guitar anti-hero and warm, velveteen vocalist, added to the mystery; Colin Caulfield’s bass was a living pulse, energetic and exact; Andrew Bailey’s apocalyptic guitar sat poised in his lap like a weapon recharging; and Ben Newman, a drum-machine in human form, drove it all into an oddly organic roar. On the Col du Lein, the whole thing turned surreal. I felt a rare, precious dissociation – the kind of mind-quiet all the meditation gurus promise. For one afternoon, DIIV were my guru.

The Col du Lein offered more space than Bruson – less cosy, but equally captivating. I met Christèle, Boris, Lina, and Virginie; we traded stories of past shows and the good energy they left behind. The Norwegian band Slomosa that preceded DIIV had impressed the crowd, and talk drifted to Josh Homme’s visit to Paléo.

Rocklette was over, but the echo stayed -buzzing in the chest, rolling in the ears, and smelling faintly of woodsmoke and melted cheese.

Text and photo David Glaser

Thanks to Michel May and the whole team of Palp Festival.