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Far from beer tents and Fyn singalongs, Tinderbox hides a stage that feels like a secret EDM universe for the devoted — and it pulls it off at an international level.
She never showed up — so neither did we.
They’re neither dead nor resurrected. Just persistent. Fourteen albums in, still angry, still poppy, 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, shouting, and Michelin dreams, The Bear returns for a fourth helping that tries to build on the chaos, but mostly feels like a dish made with the same ingredients as before — familiar, only now with a slightly flat aftertaste.
You came away breathless. Just not in the good way — more like when someone is shouting jokes, flinging their arms around and playing dance-pop at the same time, and you sit there wondering: Is this a concert? Is it satire? Or is it just a man who really, really wants to entertain you?
It was raining. We were ready. And The Streets were supposed to play. But when we finally fought our way through the sea of people from Magic Box to the main stage, it dawned on us that everyone else was heading the other way. We stepped out onto the grounds — and found ourselves almost alone. It felt like arriving at a housewarming where the host has forgotten to invite the guests, but is still pouring drinks and cranking the sound system.
I’d forgotten how much I’d missed Mnemic. Or maybe I’d simply forgotten what it feels like when a band doesn’t try to be something, but just is. A reunion could easily have been cringey. But it wasn’t.
I’ve seen Gloryhammer before. It was strange then, and it’s still strange now. Their Copenhell set felt like a Dungeons & Dragons role-playing game that never quite became dangerous — just silly. And not in the good way.
I know it’s easy to mock Bullet For My Valentine. But standing there in front of the stage, watching their singer emerge in a leather jacket and V-neck as if he were on his way to audition for a Twilight remake, I had to surrender to it: there is a special kind of cringe that is so convinced of its own toughness that it becomes entertaining.
If your band sounds like something you’d need penicillin for, you’re already off to a good start. Sylosis is a name that screams rash and shingles — and it turns out to be a kind of quality stamp.
She’s 57 and wore her bare torso like a battle-ready alien. At one point, a broad-shouldered security guard had to help Skin up out of the mosh pit, and when she was back on stage, she pointed down at him and said: “If you wanna have sex later, I’m in.” That was when I knew this wasn’t going to be some sexless nostalgia gig.
It began with a bang and ended with tinnitus. I hadn’t expected three people from Singapore to make me happier than any grand stadium concert ever could. But here we are: heart in throat, with Wormrot planted like a monument in my grindcore archive.
When 28 Days Later arrived in 2002, it reinvented the zombie genre with raw realism and a documentary-like visual 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, for now, 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 standing after collapse.
DreamWorks’ first live-action remake of an animated classic lives up to expectations — and then some. How to Train Your Dragon (2025) is both a faithful recreation and a work that feels alive in its own right. Small changes, big emotions, and top-tier performances make it feel familiar and new at the same time — without ever coming across as an empty copy.
If season 1 hit like a needle straight to the heart, season 2 feels more like a limp swat with a wet dishcloth. HBO takes on Part 2’s tangled story, but ends up with a season that is too short, too rushed, and too afraid of its own darkness.
If you couldn’t care less about quirky prose and glossy postcard prettiness, scroll straight down to the Music — that’s what you’re really here for, after all. But if you’re in the mood for a bit of festival cosiness without being hit by 200 banner ads from Scanlines, settle in and enjoy the ride. It’ll be messy, personal and far too long. A bit like a good festival. Enjoy.
The indie crowd had turned up as if for a major family occasion: Mew’s final concert with Jonas Bjerre as frontman. Melancholy, yes. But also beautiful, warm, and strangely hopeful. Because how do you actually say goodbye to a band that has scored the soundtrack to your youth?
There’s something wildly calming about watching seven men create controlled chaos on a stage, with no one bothering to explain why. The Brian Jonestown Massacre don’t play concerts — they stage séances. And on this May evening at Amager Bio, many of us had said yes to being possessed by noise, crookedness and tambourine devotion.
It always begins with irony. A couple of friends, a couple of beers, and that awkward-ish feeling on the way to a festival you’re not quite sure you love or just love to laugh at. “We Love!” sounds more like an ironic declaration of love written in Comic Sans than the name of a serious festival. But that’s the genius of it. Because after a day in Rødovre with a packed lineup made up entirely of music I know — but won’t admit I like — smiling police officers, a football team on stage, and a man faking violin on a gearbox, you end up... sold. Not ironically. For real.
There is something oddly moving 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 exit quietly. But maybe he should have put on one more mask.
You can say a lot about youth, but one thing you can’t say is that we’re afraid to feel. It almost felt indecent to even reach for your beer when Rumle Kærså stepped onstage and asked 1,500 people to close their eyes. Because we weren’t there to drink. We were there to be hit.
Their sound is like a shared pulse — and this summer it lands on Refshaleøen. Bicep are bringing their ambitious AV show CHROMA to O Days, and we’re in for a sensory bombardment of visuals, bass and emotional layers.
I’ve never been the type to care much about British garage. Then I heard Dry Your Eyes on a hungover morning, and suddenly it felt as if Mike Skinner had written the diary of my life. Now The Streets are playing Tinderbox, and I’m ready to relive the whole thing — beer in hand, heart on sleeve.
It felt a little like being 17 again. Not in that cringey, nostalgic way, but in the sense of not having a clue what the night would bring — and loving it. Teufel Bash wasn’t polished, wasn’t pretty and wasn’t planned down to the last decimal. And that was exactly why it hit something the big festivals давно forgot: the feeling of being right in the middle of something raw and real.
MagicBox at Tinderbox isn’t just a stage — it’s an emotional rollercoaster with strobe lights and 130 BPM. Afrohouse is peaking this year, and the lineup is dripping with global, rhythmic euphoria. I’ve handpicked the five DJs you absolutely can’t miss, and pointed out the one day you should not leave MagicBox — plus one booking that feels, more than anything, like a joke nobody’s really laughing at.
