Nobody planned for Jackson Tree to become anything more than a single weekend. There was no blueprint, no budget, no long-term vision, just a plot of land, a couple of speakers and a group of friends chasing a place where the music felt real.

In 2016, that group threw its first renegade set at Dirtybird Campout. What started as a bare-bones campsite gathering quickly evolved into something more intentional. The Jackson crew wanted something raw, something that felt like it belonged to them, out in the open, under the sky, with no velvet rope in sight.

JTF2019 - Retrograde Kodaks

The first Jackson Tree was pure improvisation. An abandoned RV became a DJ booth. A wooden stage was assembled by hand. Friends showed up with rented subwoofers, and decks appeared just days before the event. What looked like chaos became a night nobody forgot.

From the start, they made one defining decision: bands and DJs would share the same stage, the same ground, the same space to be heard.

What followed was steady, organic growth. No two editions were the same, each pushing a little further while still holding onto what made it special. At its peak, they hosted two festivals a year for nearly four years. Jackson Tree built a momentum few underground events could match.

But it was never just about the festival. It was a decade-long passion project that held a friend group together. Through late nights, planning cycles and last-minute scrambles, something deeper took shape. When the music hit and the crowd came alive, the feeling was always the same: Look at what we made.

The lineup reflected that same intention. Nearly every artist was a friend, a collaborator or someone the crew genuinely believed in. Jackson Tree became a place to put people on—not for profit, but out of trust. Watching those artists grow beyond the desert became one of the most rewarding parts of building it.

“We just do it because of our love for music and the people around us.” - Fadi AbuZaineh.

That mindset shaped everything. While others chased scale, Jackson Tree chose restraint. It stayed small, intimate by design. The kind of space where you recognize the people around you, where the crowd feels less like an audience and more like an extension of the crew itself.

That intimacy is hard to create and even harder to keep. Jackson Tree understood that early and protected it.

What sustained it for a decade wasn’t production value or big names, but care. The bookings came from real relationships. The crowd showed up because they were invited by someone they trusted.

That sense of community was tested in 2019, when the main stage generator failed right before a set. For most festivals, it would have been a breaking point. Instead, it became one of their defining moments.

The schedule was rebuilt on the fly. DJs shuffled. Smaller stages took over. Back-to-back sets replaced planned performances. The chaos created something better than the original plan.

But what stood out most was the crowd. Despite the setback, attendees met the moment with patience and support. It happens. We just want you to have a good time.

In that moment, it was clear Jackson Tree had become something deeper than a lineup or a stage. The community showed up when it mattered most.

That experience changed how they approached the festival moving forward. They began leaving space in the schedule, room for things to go wrong, or unexpectedly right. At Jackson Tree, those moments often became the highlight.

“You just build something cool with the Legos you’ve got.” - Kurt Sved

Jackson Tree Fall 2019/JTF19_chidstagram

After ten years, the decision to end Jackson Tree didn’t come from burnout, but from a sense of completion. Ten years felt right. And in a festival landscape that continues to grow and chase the same feeling, the crew had a message on the way out.

“Go support the ones following in our footsteps.” - Louis Garcia.

Collectives like Camp Juicy and Noodle House are already doing just that—building their own communities with the same DIY spirit and genuine care. For the Jackson Tree crew, what comes next is less about continuing and more about watching that energy carry forward.

Stepping back also meant rediscovering something they had lost along the way. After years of running events, they had stopped attending them. It took distance to remember why they started in the first place: Oh right I love this.

“We have cool lights and production now,” Omar Albasateneh said. “But if it was just a canopy, some speakers, our friends and music it’d be the same party.”

Because it was always the same party.

JTS18 - Conner Lee

The kind that reminds you why music matters, why community matters and why some things are worth building, even when all you have is belief and borrowed gear.

Jackson Tree was never just an event. It was something you felt. Something you didn’t fully understand until you were standing in the dirt at 2 a.m., surrounded by people who felt like family, wondering how something this good could exist and how you were lucky enough to find it.

In the early years, the crew had no trucks, no budget and no safety net;  just car trunks, cheap gear, and an unshakable belief that it would come together. Somehow, year after year, it did.

With a decade of memories and a community that will outlast any lineup, Jackson Tree comes to a close—not as something that ended, but as something that mattered.

JTF26- @_sarasphoto

And before it fades out completely, there’s one last thing to understand:

Jackson.

What started as an inside joke among Cal Poly Pomona students, one friend calling everyone “Jackson”—became something bigger. Over time, it turned into a feeling: sitting at a campsite, drink in hand, music in the distance, surrounded by people who just get it.

“He’s Jackson. She’s Jackson. We’re all Jackson.” - Jackson

JT25 @bryanoutwest

Written By: Katy Moncada

Editor: Elyssa Mclendon

Photos: Thomas Corcoran, Connor Lee, Bryan Out West, Sara’s Photos

Special Thanks to all Jacksons who’ve made this all possible!