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Deathloop plays out like a murderous Groundhog Day, with Colt caught between memory loss and the curse of being the only one who remembers what’s happening. An existential paradox dressed up as an action game.
I’ve seen plenty of bands at Royal Arena, but rarely one that could feel so polished and so improvised at the same time. OneRepublic have billions of streams to their name, yet they still behave like a bunch of old classmates who’ve just met up to play a few songs. That is both their strength and their weakness.
I’ve always thought of myself as a gamer. Not the kind who shouts into a headset or chases trophies, but the existential kind — the kind who plays to get through everyday life. From my childish longing for a Stone of Jordan in Diablo II to more than a thousand hours in Call of Duty during lockdown, gaming has always been my refuge. But when I became a father, gaming became something else. It became therapy. A place where I could sit with my son on my lap, controller in hand, and feel that, for once that week, we were actually in sync. And then Astro Bot arrived.
I’d actually told myself I was done with games that try to kill me for fun. Then Silksong arrived. And suddenly there I was again — sweaty palms, coffee on the table, and the feeling that the world outside could wait. It’s a game that doesn’t ask for your time; it demands your patience. And when you finally find the rhythm, it feels like remembering why you started playing in the first place.
I thought I was done with revenge games. Done with samurai stories and men in slow motion shouting at the sky while blood sprays in elegant arcs. But Ghost of Yōtei feels different. It smells of steel and rain, feels like a Zen poem dressed up as a bloodbath, and somehow manages to make revenge beautiful. It’s rare for a game to make me slow down and just look. But here I am, in the middle of a Japanese mountain pass, controller in hand, with the sense that I’m not only fighting enemies, but myself.
I’m not sure what’s more absurd: that I watched a K-pop anime musical twice in one week — or that I loved it. KPop Demon Hunters may be the best film I’ve seen in 2025, and it feels like a confession I should be making under a pseudonym. I went in with the same expectation you have when a friend insists you “just have to watch a YouTube video.” I came out with tears in my eyes and tinnitus from trap beats.
I had more or less written off the entire Alien franchise a long time ago. It’s hard not to lose faith when something you love is picked at again and again, like an old wound that never gets to heal. But Alien: Earth does something I didn’t think was possible: it makes me believe in the dark again.
I’d never heard of Nordic Race before we signed up. On paper, it looked like a CrossFitter’s wet dream and a family dad’s nightmare. I pictured pumped-up men in bare chests climbing over burning cars while the crowd hurled protein bars at them. Instead, it turned into a day of surprises — and the constant fear of having the “bracelet of shame” cut off my wrist.
You’re either there to skive off work. Or you’re there to find a job. I’m not sure what I was doing at TechBBQ myself, but I left with a pair of free socks and an existential nausea I still haven’t shaken.
I remember a time when it was obvious when bands had become famous on Myspace. They carried a particular energy with them onto the stage. On Wednesday night at Lille Vega, I learned what happens when you become known through YouTube.
Path of Exile 2 is back with beta 0.3.0 — and it feels like Christmas Eve for a Casual Gamer Dad. For those of us who grew up with gaming but now juggle nappies, coffee and children screaming in the background, here is finally a game where the pause button matters just as much as the loot. It is massive, endless — and perfect for dads gaming on borrowed time.
Normally, we only end up running through mud if it’s at a festival. But this time we’re heading for OCR — Obstacle Course Racing at Reffen. And no, our OCD won’t help us one bit.
I’d only really ticked Uro off in the programme because I remembered that video where he and Suspekt “freestyle” over their hit “Tænker ik på andre.” The plan was to stop by, catch a couple of tracks, and move on. But the sun was blazing, the energy was impossible to ignore — and suddenly I was there, swaying and completely absorbed.
First of all: huge respect to Wonderfestiwall for booking internationally at this level. Anastasia on the bill is both big and nostalgic — she could just as easily have been the headliner on Tivoli’s Fredagsrock lineup. She was present, energetic and the exact opposite of an overblown show. With eight musicians on stage, nothing was spared.
We always start in the same place when we’re heading to Bornholm: Torvehallerne. Coffee, supplies, and a firm editorial rule that you must never eat on the ferry — no need to explain why, but let’s just say a few buffets have ruined more than one good outing. From there, everything runs smoothly: through the Swedish countryside to Ystad, onto the ferry, and then it all feels almost easier than finding a buffet at Fisketorvet.
It began with mud up to the ankles and trousers sticking like a bad decision. After the first 25 cheek kisses with people you may once have known in another life, on a dark nightclub floor, I had barely managed my first sip of natural wine before the whole square started trembling with anticipation. You have to give the festival crowd ten stars for being open to something new — because let’s be honest, 99% were there to see Justice at 10.40 p.m. And when they came on, it was clear: this was not just another concert. It was a rave mass disguised as a festival.
Eric Bana returns as a battered ISB agent with liver problems and emotional baggage wrapped in a puffer jacket and whisky breath. Untamed looks like an Instagram filter applied to a family drama: visually overwhelming, but inside, everyone is coming apart at the seams. A quiet, slow crime series that doesn’t shout — but lingers.
This is the second time in less than a month I’ve seen Charli XCX — last time in Paris, battered by a biblical downpour, and here in Roskilde under heavy rain. It feels as if God has asked us to experience her in a storm, and I’m more than ready to shout “AMEN.”
She has written the soundtrack to an entire generation of heartbreak — but on Orange Stage, it sounded more like an exam in American pop. It was big, sweet and a little too streamlined. And maybe that was exactly why it never really became dangerous.
We walked past Arena on our way to Tyla. We never made it. Nine Inch Nails pulled us in like a magnetic force, and suddenly we were standing in the middle of a mechanical mass for anger, melancholy and light design.
It looked like something big. Something thought through. Something with stairs, a message, dancers, and Orange Scene. But when the confetti settled, I was left with a feeling of… wait, what was it I’d just seen?
Damon Albarn now has more Roskilde stamps in his passport than any other living Brit. Blur, Gorillaz, The Good, The Bad & The Queen — and then this: Africa Express. A kind of humanitarian musical superpower, with Albarn as UN secretary-general and eyes that never quite sit still. I still don’t fully know what I witnessed — but I’d like to vote for it.
It felt like someone had thrown Italo Brothers, goofy Melodi Grand Prix metal and a Rammstein-lite aesthetic into a Temu blender with the lid off. Everything was flying around, but nothing really landed. Mostly I just stood there thinking: who exactly is this for?
There weren’t many people, but there were cherry trees. And then there was Beabadoobee, playing as if she didn’t need any more. It didn’t feel like a festival — and maybe that was exactly what made it feel so good.
It’s a relief to watch country slowly get challenged and reshaped. The old idea of the genre as the preserve of white old men is being shaken up, and new voices — especially young Black women like Tanner Adell — are bringing a freshness and relevance worth following closely.
