When Sean Carlson started FYF Fest as an innocent teenager, it was, in his own words, an unmitigated “disaster.” Too many people showed up. Not enough of them paid. And nothing ran according to schedule. But, in a way, that was part of FYF’s fest charm. For many, it felt like an honest, if often messy, display of the chaos and camaraderie that punk rock was founded on.

In the years that followed, FYF became slightly more organized and, in many ways, exponentially more popular. It continued to grow from a string of clubs in Echo Park to an expansive field in downtown Los Angeles, where it has now become something of a premiere end of summer event (at least among fashion conscious residents who find most of their favorite new bands on some dude’s blog).

And this year, there were a lot of them, as the crowd seemed to swell past the five-figure mark. But this raised an interesting thought: If in previous years FYF Fest has felt like an insular sharing of punk rock’s unpredictable spirit, how could Carlson retain that spirit while still evolving into a real deal event?

At the very least, give him points for trying: Throughout the day, there were quite a few nods to the fest’s roots. A mid-afternoon set by the excellent New Jersey folk punk band Titus Andronicus (pictured above) found legions of kids singing along to slogans like “You will always be a loser,” while an occasional crowd surfer kicked up clouds of dust.

And, across the grounds, there was seemingly an entire stage dedicated to prophet-like hardcore bands, from newcomers like Ceremony to scene vets  7 Seconds, the latter of which you couldn’t have been cynical about even if you tried. (The moment when all four members produced their iPhones so that they could prove to their wives that way “more than 40 people” came out to see them, was fucking priceless.)

But in the end, those moments felt like exceptions. The largest crowds seemed to gather around bands like Best Coast or Local Natives, both whom easily had the largest draws of the day. As the latter act played in front of an auburn sunset, the nearby VIP beer garden filled up and they churned out the kind of elegant indie folk that earns you a sunset slot at a major rock festival.

It was a moment that could have easily happened at Coachella. Or Lollapalooza. But you had to wonder, if somewhere in the masses, Carlson wondered if that was actually a good thing.