Peterborough doesn’t usually make the national music radar. It’s a small city with a big river, too many Tim Hortons, and a reputation for being just a little too… But every August, the Peterborough Folk Festival blows a hole in that myth, and for four days this year—August 14 to 17—it was different. The City got louder, stranger, and more alive than usual, and folk music wasn’t some soft, cardigan-wearing campfire affair. It was raw, sweaty, and just dangerous enough to feel like the whole place might tip over.
The first spark came Thursday night at Market Hall. Jeanne Truax opened with stripped-down songs that felt like late-night confessions, the kind you almost feel guilty for overhearing. Then Basia Bulat took over and detonated the room. Autoharp in hand, voice cutting from velvet to wildfire, she didn’t just play songs—she exorcised them. Market Hall’s old wood and brick carried every note like it had been waiting years for it. If the Folk Fest is the city’s annual resurrection, Bulat was the priestess, and Thursday was the ritual.
Friday night was the match. Sadleir House shook under a sold-out crowd that looked more like a basement party than a campus venue. Nixon Boyd, fresh out of Hollerado, ripped through hook-heavy folk-rock that had the room bouncing off its century-old walls. VANCAMP followed with raw, unvarnished songs carved straight out of kitchen-table heartbreak, and then I, The Mountain sealed the deal—soaring four-part harmonies that turned scrappy chaos into something spiritual.
Meanwhile, across town, the Pig’s Ear Tavern was pure bedlam. B.A. Johnston, half comedy act, half folk anti-hero, turned his set into a sweaty, chaotic sing-along, while The Stavely Project kept the floor stomping with roots-driven bluegrass fire. Cramped, loud, sticky floors—it was absolutely perfect. By the end of the night, Peterborough was wide awake and grinning like it had gotten away with something.
The weekend at Nicholls Oval carried the blast. Saturday, My Son The Hurricane turned a brass section into a weapon and Joel Plaskett, Canada’s perpetual golden boy, came out swinging—still charming, still earnest, but with enough edge to remind you why he matters. Sunday Colin Linden carved up the park with guitar work so mean it could sand the rust off your car, and Whitehorse closed out the festival like the Bonnie and Clyde of Canadian indie, throwing down tight, noir-soaked harmonies that made the crowd ebb and flow.
Highlights on the pavilion stage—The Silver Hearts, Peterborough’s own ragtag orchestra of grit and soul, made the stage look like a carnival of beautiful misfits. Caitlin Currie, soft-spoken offstage, bled vulnerability into her set until it felt like the entire park was holding its breath. You could almost hear the city whisper: this is ours.
Most notably, the Solar Stage (power by the sun!) which attracted FolkFest royalty Whitehorse, Joel Plaskett, Colin Linden, and others, to perform a few songs.
But here’s the thing about the Folk Festival—it’s never just about the music. It’s about the weird cross-section of Peterborough humanity it drags out of hiding. On one side of Nicholls Oval, you had families pushing strollers, yoga mats rolled under their arms. On the other, packs of tattooed twenty-somethings in cutoff shorts passed tall cans under the trees, acting like they were at Glastonbury, not a free community festival. Somewhere in the middle, retirees danced like nobody was watching, which was both beautiful and slightly terrifying.
The Children’s Village was pure chaos—glitter explosions, face-paint everywhere, and a drum circle that may still be echoing across the Otonabee. It was wholesome, sure, but in the kind of overstimulated, sugar-high way that felt like Woodstock for seven-year-olds.
And then there was the food. Forget corn dogs and funnel cake. Here, it was dosa, curry, falafel, rolled ice cream, craft beer. The food vendors looked more like they were competing for a Michelin star than serving festival crowds. People queued for half an hour for dumplings while missing sets, which is either dedication or madness depending on how hungry you were.
The beer tent, of course, was its own ecosystem—a reunion zone where half of Peterborough came not for the music, but for the gossip. Who broke up with who, who’s moving to Toronto, which band’s lead singer still owes money to the Only Café. You didn’t need to read the Examiner; you just needed two pints and an ear.
And through it all, volunteers kept the whole rickety machine running. Folks in neon vests darted around like unsung roadies, patching holes, wrangling musicians, herding children, and keeping it all free. Free! In 2025! That’s not just generous—it’s punk as hell.
By Sunday night, when the last note dissolved into the summer air, it felt less like a concert and more like a town-wide exorcism. Peterborough had gotten loud, messy, and gloriously alive. And as the amps powered down, the gossip wound tighter, and the food stalls closed up, everyone knew the same thing: the Folk Festival isn’t just another summer event. It’s the moment the city remembers it has teeth.
If you missed it, you’ll hear about it at the pub all year. If you were there, you’ll still be buzzing. Either way, Peterborough just proved again that folk music isn’t safe, soft, or background noise—it’s a revolution that just happens to serve really good curry on the side.
(Beneath the amps and jam-session madness, the Peterborough Folk Festival pulls off another miracle—being sustainably badass. No plastic trash tsunami here. Reusable dishes and cutlery get washed at the Eco-Station by a fanatical EcoTeam, then sent back to vendors squeaky-clean. Compost, recycling, and landfill are separated like it’s a civic ritual. Thirsty? Refill your own bottle at free water stations—bottled water is officially banned. The Generation Solar Stage? Powered entirely by the sun via veritable battery-banks-on-wheels, keeping your music clean and your conscience unsoiled. Riding into town? There’s complimentary, valet-style bike parking courtesy of B!KE.)