Let me start by saying this: I love music. I live for the sound of live instruments, lyricism, and the electric energy of a crowd moving as one. I’m a proud daughter of Philadelphia and a loyal fan of the culture that raised me. But this year’s Roots Picnic? It was a slap in the face to all of that.
This was my second year attending. Last year, I was glowing. The experience was magical—organized, joyful, and worth every penny of my gold ticket. I even wrote about how seamless the weekend felt. So this year, I upped the ante: I brought a friend, eager to show them how Philly shows out when it’s time to celebrate music.
Instead, I found myself apologizing for hours.
What Went Wrong at Roots Picnic 2025?
Where do I begin?
Try a four-hour wait in the VIP line. Meanwhile, my staff with general admission tickets got in within an hour. Once we finally approached the front, we were crammed in like cattle—people passing out, people crying, people helping strangers use the bathroom while shielded by the crowd. It was grotesque.
The gold section was no better—just a glorified patch of general admission with mud pits and zero hospitality. We unwrapped our own chairs. We carried them ourselves up slick steps. No staff in sight. No dry seats. Just vibes? Hardly.
As for food and drinks? I won’t waste too many words. Let’s just say the “oxtail pizza” didn’t see a single oxtail, and the drinks tasted like juice boxes spiked with half a shot. The whole setup screamed: “Get through it.”
So we tried. We stayed for Tems, then left before Miguel and Maxwell. Nothing against the artists, but no performance is worth standing in the cold for hours just to be gouged for a $100 sweatshirt. And to find out Miguel and Maxwell were literally weathering the storm on social media confirmed our decision. So… that was Day One.
Day Two: Slightly Better, Still Not Right
We gave it another shot. Showed up later, hoping to salvage some joy. The line was smoother—20 minutes—but the energy? Gone. Still, we used up our drink tickets and waited for our favorites. And when Total hit the stage, things finally lifted. People danced. They sang. Jagged Edge and Adam Blackstone brought the energy as well.
Then came Lenny Kravitz, my childhood rock god. I wanted to be there for him—but even he knew the tech was trash. “Thank you, shit keeps breaking,” he said mid-set. He powered through like a pro, but the disconnect from the crowd was loud. It was hard to see. Hard to feel. And hard not to compare it to the joy I experienced just a year ago.
So yeah, we left before Meek. I knew the city would turn up for him, and they did. But I couldn’t fake the energy. By then I was mentally and physically drained. And I couldn’t help but to continue to total what I had spent to get there, and all the other ways I could have spent that money. I’m interested to see what they will do to recover next year. Because based on what I saw and heard from other Gold ticket attendees, it’s a wrap.
And Then Came Wu-Tang
Fast forward to Fort Worth: Wu-Tang Clan at Dickies Arena.
Here’s the thing—I thought it’d be more low-key. An older crowd, a chill vibe. But from the moment I walked in, it was everything I needed Roots Picnic to be. Entry was fast. Bars were stocked. The show started on time—lights down at 8:01, Run the Jewels opening with a tight 45-minute set.
Then Wu-Tang entered. And they did not disappoint.
Flawless execution. Deep cuts. Classic bars. And an understanding of the audience they were serving—grown folks who came to feel something. The climate control didn’t hurt either. It reminded me that live music doesn’t have to be a test of endurance. It can be intentional, respectful, and still hit every note.
Erykah Badu Made It a Juneteenth to Remember
And finally, there was Erykah Badu. South Dallas royalty. Sara Bellum, Badoula Oblongata, Fat Belly Bella and or Lowdown Loretta Brown…depending on her mood.
I’ve seen her every year for the last four years, and yeah, she often sings the same songs. But this time? It was different. There was something divine in the air.
Tye Harris opened with a tuxedo and a piano, giving Dallas, Texas its flowers through melody and memory. My favorite was his rendition of “Southside Da Realest” by the legendary Big Tuck.
Then Erykah emerged—draped in psychedelic style and sonic mysticism. She twisted every track. She bent time. “Apple Tree,” “Didn’t Cha Know,” “Time’s a Wastin’”—all remixed through the lens of a woman who’s mastered reinvention. She then debuted her latest single, “Echos 19 (mix 122),” live for the first time. Badu surprised her digital fans by premiering “Next to You,” a new collaboration with iconic producer The Alchemist, which dropped online during the show.
Closing the night with new music from her own label, Control FREAQ Records—immortalized her status as one of Dallas’ most sacred sounds.
They not like us…
So Here’s What I’ve Learned…
I’m 41 years old. I’ve earned the right to say what I like—and what I don’t.
And I did not like this year’s Roots Picnic. Not just because I spent over $1,000 and still owe my friend a make-up dinner. But because it felt like the organizers forgot what this festival was supposed to be about. A celebration of West Philly. Of music. Of us.
One day of rain should never sink an entire event—not when millions were made. Not when lives could’ve been at stake. Not when we’ve seen what happens when crowds get ignored. (Astroworld, anyone?)
So no—The Roots won’t see another one of my hard-earned dollars. I’m interested to see what that section will look like next year. From social media of course.
But Wu-Tang? You got me.
And Erykah? You can call me anytime.
Happy Black Music Month everybody.
