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Can a metal show still feel like family, ritual, and a little bit of noisy therapy all at once? On Tuesday night at Lille Vega, Soulfly gave a pretty clear answer: yes — if Max Cavalera is allowed to run the show, and if the crowd shows up with both ears and spine in place.
In rock history, there is always room for a misfit with a guitar, a crooked hat and enough confidence to let the songs breathe. Kurt Vile has long occupied that space where slacker attitude meets craft, and on Tuesday night at Vega it became crystal clear why he keeps growing. Not as a stadium figure. More like someone who slowly takes over the room while you realise you’re already nodding along.
Sparkle, drag bingo and huge choruses brought Valbyparken together as Syd for Solen 2026 opened with a Thursday full of variety.
Ericka Jane arrived at De Første Stråler in a white cap, angel wings, balloons and a T-shirt that declared her “AS APATHETIC AS CAN BE.” Luckily, she was anything but. She worked for every glance and every lifted head, but between the stage’s big gestures and the audience’s cautious nods, a distance opened up that the pop never quite managed to close. Everything was set for the party. The only thing missing was the moment it actually began.
On P3’s little sunlit patch, Thursday’s biggest bitch was found with bingo cards, twerking and a collective decision that dignity was something you could pick up again on the way home. While the big stages used lights, smoke and millions of streams to wring reactions out of the crowd, the drag bingo did it with a few numbers, quick one-liners and people willing to look ridiculous together.
Medina brought generations and festival types together in Valbyparken for a shared, hoarse folk celebration at Syd for Solen 2026.
sombr brought leather, the Danish flag, roses and a leap into the sea to Syd for Solen. The show was big, but the songs never quite found their climax.
Can you still be surprised by an act you’ve watched for three decades? Apparently yes. Infernal closed Wonderfestiwall 2026 on the main stage with an energy that made the night tremble and the step counter behave as if it were being paid per kilometer. Lina and Paw have been part of Danish dance music since 1997, but here they didn’t stand like a nostalgic museum of 00s party culture. They stood like a band that still knows how to build a finale that leaves you a little dazed, and a little happier to be human.
Some frontmen walk onstage. Martin Hedegaard arrives like a man who’s been given five minutes to prevent a minor natural disaster. On Ankermyr, he stood in a grey T-shirt with a battered Mustang bass slung over his shoulder and raindrops hanging in the stage lights. He sang, played and conducted the whole place with his entire body. SAVEUS wants to save love, the provinces, pop music and possibly the municipal emergency plan all at once. That could be unbearable. This night, it was convincing.
Wonderfestiwall has now put Benjamin Hav & Familien on the bill in 2022, 2024 and 2026. At this point, it’s no longer booking. It’s a service interval. Every other year, the disco balls, the knee joints and the nation’s tolerance for choreographed silliness have to be checked over.
You feel Valbyparken before you properly hear it. The dry grass, the late-summer heat and the fine dust rising from the paths, slowly finding its way into shoes, skin and throat. Syd for Solen is a festival that looks broad on paper, yet still has a distinct musical temperature. There is room here for Danish-language melancholy, new rap, experimental R&B and a reunion many have been waiting nearly a decade for. Saturday gave us five very different experiences — from the soft opening to the big nostalgic finale.
Honestly, I’d hoped for a proper pop explosion. Instead, I got something that felt more like a 90s fitness video with festival wristbands and a drummer who was only halfway convinced. Mel C at Wonderfestiwall 2026 should have been Saturday’s big international moment. Instead, it became a concert that seemed to sweat a little in its own nostalgia.
I was standing there with a festival beer and good intentions when The Cardigans took the stage at Wonderfestiwall on Friday around 6 p.m. It should have been a small pop-soaked breather, all Swedish elegance and communal singing in the sun. Instead, it became a concert where you could constantly feel what the audience had come for — and what the band themselves wanted something else from.
Two weeks after releasing Emotional Junglist, Nia Archives took over the Omni stage at O Days 2026 with her own leather sofa and a set that turned Refshaleøen into one giant dancing organism. We were in the crowd. Here’s our review.
Disclosure were given the honour of closing O Days 2026, the festival’s fifth anniversary, with a DJ set on the Omni stage on Saturday night. We arrived with a slight reservation and cycled home with aching legs and a silly grin. Here is our review.
Electronic music has always had that peculiar ability to make national borders feel a little unnecessary. Tripolism are a good example: in just a few years, Bryn, Frederik and Rasmus have moved from the Danish scene’s more insiderish circles to lineups where Coachella is not just a dream, but a recurring address. At O Days, they stood in Orangeriet on a Saturday afternoon and proved that world-class can also smell like sun-warmed grass and festival dust.
Can a superhero film still feel like a film, and not just a franchise that’s been given too much electricity? Spider-Man: A Brand New Day at least tries to answer yes. Tom Holland returns as Peter Parker, and after years of multiverses, noise, and digital confetti, it’s almost a relief that the series once again dares to be small enough to feel human.
Honestly, I expected a game that would lean so heavily on Bond mythology it would buckle under its own weight. Instead, IO Interactive has made something far more interesting: a game that knows its tuxedo, but also knows when to roll up the sleeves. 007 First Light is both grand and playful, and it feels as if Danish game development has just grabbed a global franchise by the lapels and said: “Relax, we’ve got this.”
Roskilde Festival is, of course, about music. We say that because it’s the easy answer, and because it sits at the top of the poster. But the festival’s real spirit often lives everywhere else: in the mud, in the camps, in the queues, in the night, and on the walls you only notice once you stop chasing the next concert.
Clipse on Orange Scene should have been one of those bookings you later say you were right there for. Pusha T and Malice. The brothers. The myth. Coke rap with museum status and a still-fresh whiff of asphalt. But somewhere between the razor-sharp rhymes, the heavy beats, and an audience that wanted to be convinced, it all started to feel a bit like having the same hard-boiled text message read aloud 27 times.
Some concerts demand that you know the songs. Others only ask that you let go. Young Miko delivered a show where language quickly mattered less than rhythm, bass and the effortless confidence she brought to the stage. It was cool without feeling calculated, and that was exactly why it pulled you in.
Friday at Roskilde can be a strange beast. Some people are ready from early morning; others are still drifting around as if their bodies have only just realised they’re at a festival. Mille stood right in the middle of it all on Arena with a confidence that suited her. The concert needed a moment to pull the audience in, but once it found its space, there was plenty to like.
Roskilde had been wet, heavy, and grey all day. You could feel the rain in your clothes, in the mud, and in that slightly flat festival energy that creeps in when the weather gets to call the shots for too long. But when Little Simz stepped onto Orange Scene on Thursday at 6 p.m., something shifted. The sun broke through, the crowd lifted, and the festival started breathing again.
Rain poured down over Roskilde, and Arena was packed to the rafters. Some people sheltered under the tent canvas; others slowly soaked through without quite giving up. It could have turned into a heavy afternoon. Instead, Guldimund became a reminder of how much can happen when a concert doesn’t try to fill every corner, but simply dares to stay close.
David Byrne was one of those bookings at Roskilde that made the whole programme look smarter just by being there. A living legend, yes, but thankfully not in that museum-piece way, where you pay to watch a man reminisce about himself. At Arena, we got something stranger and better: a concert that behaved like a performance.
