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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.
She is 57 years old and wore her upper body like a battle-ready alien. At one point, a broad-shouldered security guard had to help Skin up from the moshpit, and when she again stood on stage, she pointed down at him and said: “If you wanna have sex later, I'm in.” That's when I knew this was going to be no genderless nostalgia concert.
It started with a bang and ended with tinnitus. I hadn't counted on three people from Singapore to make me happier than any big-laden stadium concert. But here we stand then: with my heart up in my throat and Wormrot planted as a monument in my grindcore ledger.
When 28 Days Later came out in 2002, it reinvented the zombie genre with a raw realism and a documentary film language that has since become iconic. Twenty-two years later, director Danny Boyle and screenwriter Alex Garland pick up the thread with 28 Years Later, the third and tentatively final film in the trilogy. The result is an unpredictable and rather brave ending that refuses to deliver the expected shocks -- and instead insists on a more philosophical look at the society left after its collapse.
DreamWorks' first live-action remake of an animation classic lives up to expectations -- and a little more. How to Train Your Dragon (2025) is both a faith re-creation and a living work in its own right. Small changes, big emotions and top-notch acting make the film something that feels both familiar and new — without feeling like an empty copy.
If season one hit like a syringe-tipped stab to the heart, season 2 feels more like a limp slap with a wet dishcloth. HBO takes hold of Part 2's complex narrative, but ends up with a season that's too short, too hasty and afraid of its own darkness.
If you’re not here for the quirky prose and glossy metaphors, scroll straight to The Music — that’s what you came for anyway. But if you’re in the mood for a bit of festival chaos without 200 banner ads chasing you around, sit back and enjoy. It gets messy, personal, and slightly out of hand, kind of like a good festival.
The indie crowd had turned up as if for a big family event: Mew's last concert with Jonas Bjerre as frontman. Wistfully, yes. But also beautiful, warm and oddly hopeful. Because how do you say goodbye to a band that has sounded like your youth?
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