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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?
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.
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.
