Country Thunder Wisconsin 2025 Diary

In the wild of southern Wisconsin — somewhere between a cornfield, a Cup O’Joe cafe and the edge of an Ace Hardware parking lot — lies Twin Lakes. The kind of town where the Friday fish fry is sacred, I imagine the gossip travels faster than the internet and the summer sky turns cotton candy at dusk.

An hour northwest of Chicago, it’s so quiet, the only thing you’ll hear is the air…until Country Thunder rolls in. Once a year, the sleepy lakeside village of Twin Lakes, Wisconsin, swaps fishing poles and farmer’s markets for four days of boots, beer and ballads. And this year? It showed up louder than ever.

Held at the 37-acre Shadow Hill Ranch, Country Thunder Wisconsin 2025 welcomed more than 100,000 fans across horse-grazing, American flag-waving lush land for this equal part hoedown throwdown and homecoming blowout. 

It’s a place that seems straight out of a Hallmark holiday movie…or a country song. Picture winding roads lining lake bays packed with pontoons, snack shacks with hand-painted signs and locals picking up live bait at the only grocery store in town. It’s the kind of place where a marquee sign reads “Car Show & Spaghetti Dinner,” and honestly, that sounds like the hottest ticket in town. That’s something I’d show up on time for. And for one weekend in July, it transforms.

Country Thunder has been country strong for three decades, but 2025 felt especially electric. Maybe it was the mix of seasoned headliners, rising stars and a variety of subgenres. Maybe it was the ice-cold Crown Royal Blackberry Lemonades, distracting us from the heat and humidity. Or maybe it was the sheer joy of gathering — campers, day-trippers, road-trippers and workers from all over, toasting to the good times and embracing the beautiful chaos of the Midwest in its most unapologetic form. You want to understand the Midwest? Don’t go to Chicago. Go to Country Thunder.

It’s hard to describe the vibe as just one thing. It was rowdy, yep, but also incredibly kind. Let’s get one thing straight: if you’re going to do country music, this is how you do it, with a sweat-soaked shirt, forgetting to reapply sunscreen and the scent of smoked meat lingering in the air like an Axe bomb (but seriously, don’t forget the beef jerky).

You can listen to country music on the radio. You can see it in an arena. But you’ll never feel it the way you do here — with thunderstorms, lightning bugs and the roar of a crowd belting “God’s Country” in unison. It’s about honoring the tailgate, worshiping the fireworks and embracing strangers like you do reuniting with your long-distance best friend.

Here’s your recap: day by day, cocktail by cocktail, truck song by truck song. It’s all very important.

THURSDAY

The festival kicked off under gray skies and lush green fields, with fans sprinting through the gates like it was a Black Friday sale. By 3 p.m., the lawn was sprinkled with folding chairs, straw hats and one inflatable bald eagle pool float (yes, this was an actual outfit.) The fashion? Think stars-and-stripes overalls, camo Crocs and graphic tees reading “I’m not ashamed of who I am. That’s my wife’s job.” A man wearing an entire taxidermy deer head (7-point buck, I counted) made it through security, somehow. Logistics unclear. Commitment admirable. 

Though there was no shortage of entertainment all around, the main events were on the stage.

Gavin Adcock sauntered out at golden hour in a half-buttoned tribal shirt tucked into starched jeans, chain glinting while his giant belt buckle stole the show and tipping his hat just so. Sometime after the first few crowd cheers, a bottle of Jack made its theatrical debut, getting swung around and swigged like a prop he’d been waiting to let rip.

By the time the sun went down, the shirt was open billowing in the breeze, his swagger fully activated, as he spun and grooved singing “Need To.” Maybe it was the dimples, maybe the way he danced with his hips, but whatever it was, the man’s got it. Call it charisma, call it chaos, but I couldn’t look away.

Later that night, the young adults traveled in packs and flocked to Cole Swindell giving the first full main stage moment of the weekend. Suited in a red Budweiser Full-Snap Twill NASCAR Jacket and snakeskin boots, Swindell set a feel-good tone for the weekend cruising through his hits and the familiar rally anthem “She Had Me at Heads Carolina.” The crowd knew every word; everyone’s heartbeats synced and became one big pulse. If not for the miles and miles of cornfields surrounding us, the voices belting in unison may have echoed across the land. 

Call it a stretch, but something about ending the day on such a wholesome note, with three days still ahead made the whole thing a bit like a fever dream.

FRIDAY

Wisconsin woke up hot and unbothered. The sun was out to play, and so was skin. Kids crawled and terrorized bugs across the lawn, parents lounged and laughed, openers prompted smaller early afternoon concertgoers with a line that was repeated A LOT across the four days: “Who likes ‘90s country???” There was a constant faint crunch of dry gravel grinding under each step as people mingled and wandered.

Before HARDY headlined, there was Ashley McBryde. The woman came out swinging with her vocal range and developed a connection with the audience that hadn’t been done yet. Her set was personal in a light-hearted manner, telling tales of trailer-park fights and the song that made her decide where she wanted to sing and live: “So God bless the boys who make the noise on 16th Avenue.” She told the crowd, “I don’t [live there] now” then paused before quipping, “I live on 17th!” with a smirk. The funniest on-stage surprise was when, while performing “Brenda Put Your Bra On,” she pulled out a sequined red bra the size of a pontoon and wore it over her shirt, and the fans went wild. Very camp. Very country. Both can be true.

Then came HARDY. He appeared out of thin air, he opened with “Jim Bob,” a metal, rage, redneck alter ego song that felt like I was intruding on the most cathartic therapy session imaginable. Pyrotechnics exploded my last shred of shock after probably singeing the eyebrows off the first few front rows. Shoulder-length hair whipped back and forth, the man headbanged so hard I feared for his prescription glasses. The crowd loved him, and he loved the crowd.

After bringing Ashely McBryde back out for “Wait in the Truck,” he sang “Truck Bed,” leaping off the stage and over to the pit while fans screamed and security cried on the inside trying to pull him away and back to stage. The word “truck” was used well over 200 times in the span of 10 minutes, but boy, that song is a banger. The more relaxed, mainstream country side of HARDY also came through songs in the middle of the set, as he fondly recalled his last Country Thunder performance in 2022 when it poured rain, his stage shifted and yet fans still showed up to see him. He graciously thanked the crowd and ended his set with fireworks exploding behind the stage while yelling, “Good luck, Jelly Roll!” and mic dropped.

SATURDAY

The crowd on Saturday had clearly rallied or were just finally off work and amped to start their weekend. There were cutoffs, cheese curds and couples dancing next to Porta-Potties. Midwest charm: off the charts.

Of course, it wasn’t just about the music. Throughout the weekend, fans contributed to the Crown Royal Purple Bag Project, packing the brands iconic purple bags for veterans with essential toiletries while sipping on a Crown Royal Blackberry Frosé. It was easily the busiest activation at the festival, serving as a reminder that good times and good causes aren’t mutually exclusive and can make these weekends count further than a memory.

Ashley Cooke turned heads and gave a killer set, but for many, the day belonged to Jelly Roll. Dressed in all black and covered in tattoos, he spoke candidly about loss, redemption, grace and the power of music. “This ain’t a concert,” he shouted. “This is a family reunion. This is healing.” Cut to the 25,000 he addressed all welling up with tears. He honored Post Malone, revealed his upcoming international tour and mashed up Nickelback’s “How Your Remind Me” and Snoop Dogg’s “Young, Wild & Free” (?!). Nothing has ever felt so right.

Mr. Roll had many conversations with the crowd as a preacher, a teacher and the whole damn choir, which, by their reaction, is what the crowd needed in that moment. He asked what the one country song everyone knows is, and the guitarist hadn’t finished strumming the first set of chords before the cheering erupted. Ashley Cooke returned to stage and joined Jelly Roll for Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places,” lighting up the crowd like the Fourth of July.

SUNDAY

Sunday felt like the last day of summer camp: Delighted for what the day will bring, but also ready to leave the outdoor toilets in the dust. Those four days were an inexplicable time warp that slowed time and allowed strangers to act like neighbors, Crown Royal hats to become currency and everyone to find something to relate over. There’s absolutely no way alcohol played a role in that; just chalking it up as Midwest magic.

To quote Brooks & Dunn, “I’m a George Strait junkie,” and who better than Zach Top to perfectly fill the neotraditional void I didn’t realize the festival had until he calmly walked to center stage strumming his electric baby blue guitar smiling like a shy guy with a secret. He has the twang, a little bit of whistle, the howl, yet as smooth as butter. But if you asked Top, the smoothest thang in his book is a “Beer For Breakfast,” a silly ode to the beverage that says “it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.”

Dierks Bentley shut it down by bringing Top back on stage — both fully committed to their alter egos (another set? Is this a thing?). As beach balls bounced over a sea of airborne arms, Bentley, wearing an ’80s wig and leopard print, joked that Top was his son in their performance role-play, sealing the weekend with the right amount of kooky.

I will say, there’s something about a festival like Country Thunder that sticks with you. It’s not just the music, or the buzz from a perfect Crown whisky tea; it’s the way strangers become familiar quickly. How the stories in songs feel like you’ve been there. How even when you’re running on fumes and your voice is gone, you wait for the headliner’s last note, fully knowing it means at least an hour trapped in parking lot purgatory.

If you left without a sunburn, a koozie or a new truck-driving best friend named Mike, you didn’t do it right.

Country Thunder Wisconsin isn’t just the best way to experience country music — it might be the only way to do it right. It’s a rite of passage. A manure-dusted, sweat-soaked, emotionally charged reminder that the best way to feel country music isn’t through your headphones, but out here, feeling the bass in your chest while choking on bug spray. Where the Midwest is unfiltered and the songs make you feel as alive as a shot of Fireball before dinner. You don’t  have to know the lyrics because you’ll have them down by the second chorus. That’s the magic of country: it brings people in, builds community and gives you an excuse to sip a frosé during the day. 

It’s not just a concert.

It’s the damn Midwest.

We’ll see you next year. Pack closed-toed shoes. Leave your ego. Buy the camo Crocs.

All photographs: Noah Furey // clarkst.co