I’ve seen Gloryhammer before. It was strange then, and it’s still strange now. Their Copenhell set felt like a Dungeons & Dragons role-playing game that never quite became dangerous — just silly. And not in the good way.
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Disclaimer: Apropos Magazine received access or a review copy. As always, we share our own impressions — unfiltered.
Six stars
Gloryhammer is about as close as you get to a fantasy play dressed up as a metal band. There are costumes, there are props, and there’s a man in a glittering suit of armour singing about unicorns and cosmic wars as if he means every word. But of course he doesn’t. And that’s the whole problem.
The concert kicks off with a bang — not from the music, but from confetti and papier-mâché fantasy. It feels like stumbling into the middle of a British children’s TV version of World of Warcraft. The sound is perfectly fine, and the musicians play tight, but everything is so theatrical and detached that it’s hard to feel anything. Their songs are about intergalactic dragons and zombies in Dundee, but there’s no nerve, and I start getting bored before the first chorus is over.
The problem with Gloryhammer isn’t that they’re silly. It’s that they don’t go all the way with the silliness. If you’re going to be a joke metal band, then do it with conviction. But here they hover in some odd no-man’s-land between seriousness and parody, and it leaves the whole thing flat. I sat there feeling like I was watching people pretend to put on a show — without actually wanting to.
The crowd seemed split. Some people were laughing out loud, others were filming on their phones and looking confused. One man next to me sang along to The Unicorn Invasion of Dundee with a sincerity that made me a little sad. Maybe that’s the most depressing part: Gloryhammer is best if you’re an ironic fan — and who really has the energy for that anymore?
Visually, it all most of all resembles a children’s play that never got finished in production. They have their own universe, their own characters, and a kind of mythology that’s probably fun to dive into if you’re 13 and have just discovered both Iron Maiden and LEGO Castle.
But on a stage like Copenhell, which otherwise reeks of sweat, intensity and real emotion, Gloryhammer sticks out like a comic detour. It’s like serving squash at a whisky tasting. I’ve seen them before. I’ve had enough now.
In reality…
Gloryhammer is the musical equivalent of a theme party where the host never quite dares to put on the wig. There’s a lack of depth, and there’s a lack of will to really be something. They’re entertaining for five minutes, but quickly start to feel like a segment from Tæskeholdet that was never cut out.
