It always begins with irony. A couple of friends, a couple of beers, and that awkward-ish feeling on the way to a festival you’re not quite sure you love or just love to laugh at. “We Love!” sounds more like an ironic declaration of love written in Comic Sans than the name of a serious festival. But that’s the genius of it. Because after a day in Rødovre with a packed lineup made up entirely of music I know — but won’t admit I like — smiling police officers, a football team on stage, and a man faking violin on a gearbox, you end up... sold. Not ironically. For real.
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Disclaimer: Apropos Magazine received access or a review copy. As always, we share our own impressions — unfiltered.
Six stars
The logistics of love
Let’s start with the boring part — which somehow turned out to be the impressive part: there were almost no queues for the toilets. I’ve been to Roskilde, NorthSide, Distortion and the mythically dreadful Syd For Solen. I’ve seen things. But I’ve never seen a festival with infrastructure this smooth. The food stalls were varied, there was enough room to dance (or escape), and the police officers smiled and took pictures with guests as if they were a little starstruck by the whole 90s fever too. It felt as if everyone had been told to remember why they do this. And you could feel it.
Behind it all stands Riffi.
A man who looks as if he has fallen out of an alternate version of Denmark’s Dragons’ Den, where the idea of “a party for the people” was pitched with arm gestures bigger than both the budget and reality. And yet — or maybe because of that — it works. Riffi is on stage, behind the stage, at the microphone and at the heart of the whole concept. He’s a little Dyne-Larsen, a little Branson, a little Brixtofte (in the enthusiastic, pre-tax-debt way). It takes guts to stand in the middle of your own festival and say, “Should we turn this into a cruise next time?” — and get the crowd to applaud. But he does. And we applaud.
Concert gems and interval nonsense
Mel C delivered the strongest set of the night. The Spice Girls hits landed exactly where they should, but it was her duet without Bryan Adams (“When You’re Gone”) that stole my heart. The vocal was finally placed where it belonged — unlike the original recording, where, for reasons unknown, she sings as if someone has turned her down on the remote control. Cut’n’Move created a proper party, and Zindy Laursen still has enough stage appeal to make a parking lot in Rødovre look like Madison Square Garden. Rednex... well, they’re still Rednex. Absurd, silly and gloriously unironic in their chaos. Watching a man in a brown vest being pushed around on a gearbox while pretending to play the violin, before the lead singer played dead on the same box — that’s not something you think you want to see. But when you do, it feels like art.
Unfortunately, the energy dipped with Paul Oakenfold. Not just because he was old-school — but because he simply seemed like he wanted to go home. I’ve never before heard anyone play Avicii’s “Levels” in its full length in the middle of a DJ set. It felt like a sin. Especially when he started packing his bag halfway through his own set. It became a bit like watching an uncle at the family party who insists on playing music from his own teenage years — on a CD.
Let’s put it like this…
I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t this. And that is meant as a huge compliment. “We Love!” is not made for music snobs, hipster doubters or Pitchfork readers. It’s made for you, your mum, your colleague from HR and your teenage friend who still thinks Rednex are from Texas. And it works. Not just because it’s fun, cheap and well run. But because it knows what it is. A nostalgia festival without ironic distance — or maybe with it, but only at the start. It melts away. You surrender. And suddenly you’re standing there with your arms in the air, shouting “Spice up your life!” with people you’ve never met before.
The festival gets no stars from me. Not because it doesn’t deserve them — but because this is beyond the scale. It’s a mood, a sense of community, a party with self-awareness and absurdity in perfect balance. And I actually think Scatman John looked down from the clouds and nodded in approval.
Festival season is officially underway. And I love it. Unironically.
