By the time The Lemonaids took the stage, the Sputnikhalle Münster was a goddamn zoo. Four bands deep into the night, the crowd was a sweaty, beer-drenched mess of punks, misfits, and half-drunk lunatics clinging to whatever shred of sanity they had left. And then came *them*—four sun-soaked Scots with matching grins and melodies so bright they could pierce through the thickest German winter at Puke-Fest
The Lemonaids didn’t waste a second. They opened with „Suzy Tsunami,“ a tidal wave of sugar-coated riffs and harmonized vocals that crashed into the room with reckless abandon. The crowd, already teetering on the edge, dove headfirst into the madness, pogoing in unison like they’d suddenly found themselves on a neon-lit beach instead of the grimy confines of the Sputnikhalle.
„Cherry Cola“ followed, a fizzy, effervescent anthem that made you want to grab a surfboard and ride it straight to oblivion. Every note dripped with nostalgia and reckless joy, and for three glorious minutes, the room felt like the summer break you never wanted to end.
„Back to the Bay“ was next—a power-pop gem with just enough punk edge to keep it sharp. The Beach Boys influence was undeniable, but there was a rawness, a grit under the surface that screamed Glasgow. It was a song for dreamers and heartbreakers, and the crowd ate it up like kids on a sugar binge.
By the time they launched into „Psycho Beach,“ the line between reality and delirium was all but gone. It was fast, wild, and just the right kind of unhinged, the perfect soundtrack for a night spiraling out of control. The floor shook, the air buzzed, and somewhere near the front, a guy in a Hawaiian shirt lost his mind entirely.
They closed with „Boardshop,“ a sing-along so infectious that even the most cynical bastard in the back couldn’t help but join in. It was pure sunshine bottled in a song, a final hurrah that left the crowd grinning, exhausted, and completely alive.
The Lemonaids didn’t just play a set—they brought a slice of summer to a cold, chaotic night in Münster. It was all sun, sand, and surf wrapped in the DIY grit of punk rock, and for a brief, beautiful moment, Pukefest felt like paradise. Glasgow never felt so close 
