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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?
There's something wildly reassuring about watching seven men wreak controlled chaos on a stage without anyone trying to explain to you why. The Brian Jonestown Massacre don't play concerts -- they hold séances. And in Amager Bio this May evening, many of us had agreed to let ourselves be obsessed with noise, squalor and tambourine love.
It always starts with irony. A few friends, a few beers and an awkward-ish vibe on the way to a festival you don't quite know if you love or love to laugh at. “Vi Elsker! ” sounds more like an ironic declaration of love written in comic sans than a serious festival name. But that's what's the genius. Because after a day in Rødovre with a tightly packed lineup only featuring music I know (but won't admit I like), big-smiling police, a football team on stage and a man who faked playing the violin on a gearbox, then one is actually... sold. Not ironic. That's right.
There's something strangely touching about watching Tom Cruise say goodbye. Not with a bang, but with a hug. Mission: Impossible - Dead Reckoning Part Two feels like a farewell salute from a man who has been running for our entertainment for nearly 30 years — and who still refuses to go quietly. But maybe he should have put on another mask.
You can say a lot about youth, but at least you can't say that we dare not feel anything. It felt almost inappropriate at all to reach for his beer when Rumle Kærså stood on stage and asked 1,500 people to close their eyes. We weren't there to drink. We were there to get hit.
Their sound is like a common pulse — and this summer it hits Refshaleøen. Bicep are bringing their ambitious AV show CHROMA to O Days, and we're looking forward to a sensory bombardment of visuals, bass and emotional layers.
I've never been the type to go up in British garage. But then I heard Dry Your Eyes on a hungover morning, and suddenly it felt like Mike Skinner had been journaling my life. Now The Streets is playing on Tinderbox and I'm ready to relive it all -- with beer in hand and heart on my shirt.
It felt a bit like being 17 again. Not in that fancy nostalgic way, but like when you really didn't know what was going to happen during the evening — and loved it. Teufel Bash was not polished, not neat and not planned to the last decimal place. And precisely for that reason, it hit on something the big festivals have long since forgotten: the feeling of being right in the middle of something raw and real.
MagicBox on Tinderbox isn't just a stage -- it's an emotional roller coaster with strobe lights and 130 BPM. The Afrohouse is peaker this year, and the lineup oozes global, rhythmic euphoria. I've handpicked the five DJs you can't miss and pointed out the one day you can't leave MagicBox — as well as one booking that most of all feels like a joke no one really laughs at.
The two French men behind Justice have trashed hotel rooms, won Grammys and made an opera without an audience. Now they're playing at the O Days Festival -- and I still hope someone shouts “We Are Your Friends,” even though it was 20 years ago that was cool.
I knew it was going to be good. But I hadn't expected a concert in which the Royal Arena transforms into a pop-cultural stage-shift of lights, mechanics and manic self-staging. Tyler, The Creator doesn't just play music -- he stages himself as his own main work.
You know you're in Copenhagen when someone comes up with the idea of building a recording studio in the middle of a boutique hotel. And you know it works when it's Jacob Bellens and Martin Skovbjerg (yes, the one from AV AV and the kind of visuals that feel like a fit of beauty) who are behind it.
Season 7 of Black Mirror features six new episodes that balance between technological satire, sci-fi experimentation and meta-commentary. Unfortunately, the outcome is uneven, and the series' ability to mirror reality is weakened as the ideas drift from both relevance and resonance.
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