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Path of Exile 2 is back with beta 0.3.0 -- and it feels like Christmas Eve for a Casual Gamer Dad. We who grew up with gaming but now juggle diapers, coffee and baby screams are finally getting a game where the pause button is as important as the loot. The game is massive, endless -- and perfect for dads who are gaming on borrowed time.
Usually we only run around in mud if it's at a festival. But this time we are going to OCR — Obstacle Course Racing at Reffen. And no, our OCD helps us nothing here.
I had actually just ticked Unrest in the program because I remembered the video where he and Suspekt “freestyled” over their hit “Thinking of Others”. The idea was to stop by, hear a few tracks and then move on. But the sun was bright, the energy impossible to ignore — and suddenly there I was, swaying and completely engulfed.
First of all: great respect to Wonderfestiwall for international booking of that calibre. Anastasia on the poster is both big and nostalgic -- in fact, she might as well have been the headliner of Tivoli's lineup for Friday Rock. She was present, energetic and the exact opposite of a drawn-out show. With eight musicians on stage, nothing was spared.
We always start at the same place when we go to Bornholm: at Torvehallerne. Coffee, provisions and a firm editorial rule that you must never eat food on the ferry -- we don't need to explain why, but let's just say a few buffets have ruined several good excursions. From there it goes like clockwork: through the Swedish countryside to Ystad, on the ferry, and then it almost feels easier than finding a buffet at Fisketorvet.
It began with mud up to the ankles and pants that sticky like a bad decision. After the first 25 cheek kisses with people you might once have known from a previous life in a dark nightclub, I barely managed to take first sips of natural wine before the whole square began to quiver with anticipation. You have to give the audience at the festival ten stars for being open to experiencing something new -- because let's be honest, 99 percent were there to see Justice at 10:40 p.m. And as they went on, it was clear: This wasn't just another concert. It was a rave fair, disguised as a festival.
Eric Bana returns as a martyr ISB agent with liver problems and emotional baggage wrapped in down jacket and whiskey breath. Untamed looks like an Instagram filter on a family drama: visually overwhelming, but internally everyone is disintegrating. A quiet, slow crime that doesn't shout loudly — but lingers.
This is the second time in less than a month I have seen Charli XCX — last in Paris, smashed by a celestial storm, and here in Roskilde under heavy rain. It feels like God has asked us to experience her in a stormy weather -- and I'm ready to shout “AMEN.”
She's written the soundtrack to an entire generation of heartbreak -- but on the Orange Scene it sounded mostly like an exam in American pop. It was big, cute and a little too streamlined. And perhaps that's why it never really became dangerous.
We walked past Arena to reach Tyla. We so didn't. For Nine Inch Nails pulled us in like a magnetic force, and suddenly we were standing in the middle of a mechanical fair for anger, melancholy and lighting design.
It looked like something big. Something thought. Something with staircase, message and dancers and Orange Scene. But when the confetti had settled, I was left with a feeling of... wait, what exactly was it that I had just seen?
Damon Albarn has more Roskilde stamps in his passport than any other Briton alive today. Blur, Gorillaz, The Good, The Bad & The Queen - and then this one: Africa Express. As a kind of humanitarian music superpower with Albarn as UN secretary-general and squinting eyes. I still don't know exactly what I experienced -- but I'd like to vote for it.
It was like blending Italo Brothers, silly Melodi Grand Prix metal and a Rammstein-light aesthetic in a Temu blender without a lid. Everything flew around, but nothing landed. I mostly stood and thought: Who is this really for?
There weren't many people, but there were cherry trees. And then there was Beabadoobee, playing like she didn't need any more. It didn't feel like a festival -- and perhaps that's precisely what made it nice.
It is liberating to experience how the country genre is slowly being challenged and developed. The classic notion of country as the domain of white old men is being shaken, and new voices, especially young black women like Tanner Adell, bring a freshness and relevance worth following closely.
Far from draught beer and Funen folk songs, Tinderbox hides a scene that feels like a secret EDM world for the dedicated — and it does so on an international level.
She didn't come -- and we didn't see that either.
They are neither dead nor resurrected. Just persevering. 14 albums deep, still angry, still pop, still political -- and still wearing eyeliner and leather jackets, as if the world hasn't moved on. Maybe because it hasn't.
After three seasons of sweat, shouts and Michelin dreams, The Bear returns with a fourth round that tries to build on the chaos, but most of all feels like a dish with the same ingredients as before -- familiar, but now with a slightly flat flavor.
One was completely out of breath. But not in the cool way -- more like when someone shouts jokes, makes arm gestures and plays dancepop at the same time, and you sit and think: Is this a concert? Is that satire? Or is this just a man who really, really wants to entertain?
It was raining. We were ready. And The Streets were going to play. But when we finally fought our way through the human sea from the Magic Box towards the main stage, it dawned on us that everyone else was going away. We stepped out into the square — and stood almost alone. It felt like showing up to a housewarming, where the host has forgotten to invite the guests but is still bestowing drinks and firing up under the facility.
I had forgotten how much I missed Mnemic. Or maybe I had just forgotten what it feels like when a band isn't trying to be something, but just is something. The recovery could have been the biscuit. But it wasn't.
I've seen Gloryhammer before. It was strange then, and it's still strange now. Their concert at Copenhell felt like a Dungeons & Dragons role-playing game that never got really dangerous -- just silly. And not in the fat way.
I realize it's easy to mock Bullet For My Valentine. But as I stood there in front of the stage, watching their lead singer emerge in leather jacket and V-neckline like was he on his way to casting in a remake of Twilight, I had to surrender to it: There's a special kind of cringe that's so convinced of its own toughness that it becomes entertaining.
If your band sounds like something you get penicillin for, you're already well underway. Sylosis is a name that screams rash and shingles -- and it turns out to be a kind of stamp of quality.
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