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There are dark November evenings, and then there are evenings when darkness doesn’t just fall — it gets organized. The kind where everything suddenly smells a little of incense, latex, and anticipation.
Damon Albarn now has more Roskilde stamps in his passport than any other living Brit. Blur, Gorillaz, The Good, The Bad & The Queen — and now 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 quite like to vote for it.
On 17 July 2024, Lunden in Horsens was transformed into a resonant chamber for two of the strongest live bands of our time. Mew and The War on Drugs met in the open, green amphitheatre — and let their melancholy sound worlds mirror one another in the summer light.
There’s still something special about seeing D-A-D play in the capital. But at Forum Black Box on 31 January 2025, it wasn’t the triumph many had hoped for. The band had been touring solidly with their new album Speed of Darkness, and both pyrotechnics and audience were ready.
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.
A Malk de Koijn concert always feels a little like a resurrection. They turn up every few years, say something about bananas, snails and the universe’s bad WiFi, and suddenly you’re reminded: right, Danish rap really can be its own planet.
From low gear to high gear in relentless heat. Hell’s flame closed in around us. Friday at Copenhell 2026 delivered Trivium in peak form, a collapsed anniversary show, and a festival balancing chaos and highlights.
Thursday was the day Copenhell really shifted into gear. The grounds were more tightly packed, the blood alcohol level a touch higher, and the festival started to look like itself. The bill ranged from modern metalcore with AI anxiety to Brazilian thrash and a man in a kilt playing guitar as if time had stopped existing.
I hadn’t seen that Boiler Room set. Admitting it felt almost embarrassing, like turning up for an exam without having read the syllabus, but with sunglasses on and a Red Bull in hand. Still, I’d heard people say the sentence enough times for it to start sounding like a kind of entry requirement for Arena: “Have you seen that Boiler Room set?”
White Lies did a lot right at Tinderbox. They played neatly, sounded like a band in command of their dark British engine room, and brought the songs the crowd had come for. Even so, the concert never quite turned dangerous. It stood there in front of us, polished and orderly, but never got close enough.
Sammy Virji at Poolen was not love at first drop, but the British DJ quickly turned the night into a heavy UK garage party in Copenhagen. For the first twenty minutes, we mostly stood there weighing up the distance to the stage, the crowd and the format. Then, thankfully, the set began to show why Sammy Virji is one of the hottest names on the international club scene right now.
If you’ve ever wondered, “What is Danish live music actually missing?” the answer is apparently giant moustaches, Irina Olsen under an alien head, and Carl Knast. He delivered that, plus pan flute, plus a filthy wifebeater, plus a level of chaos that should probably be illegal and yet felt exactly right.
A group of American Rangers suddenly finds itself facing an enemy that doesn’t play by the usual rules of war: a gigantic, seemingly unstoppable war machine. In the middle of the chaos, a young soldier must try to survive a battle that looks lost before it has even begun. But can human beings really take on a 30-meter-tall robot?
A packed house, almost as if every seat were stuffed with anticipation and ready-made laughter. Simon Talbot slips onto the stage with a rhythm that makes it feel as though he’s already won everyone over. The lights shift, the music pounds in step with the pace, and he steers through his universe of deliberate contradictions, grotesque observations and physical comedy. From the very first second, the audience is slapping its thighs — perhaps a little violently, but hey, this is a sold-out Bremen.
Go to Danish Coffee Festival if you’re curious about coffee craft, machines, and the little microcosm of modern coffee culture — and want to be inspired. Stay home if you mainly drink coffee out of habit and prefer a good cup without having to explain it in haiku, and you don’t have a strong opinion about chestnut nougat notes.
Alter Bridge have been around long enough now to have become their own point of reference. Not as a nostalgic revival project, but as a band that has simply kept going while the world has been busy discovering and forgetting new names. At K.B. Hallen on January 24, it became clear that Alter Bridge no longer stand in the shadow of Creed, 2000s supergroups, or the classic rock shelves at petrol stations. They’re just a band that knows exactly what it’s doing — and who it’s playing for.
When the unsaid makes the most noise – a sibling drama that cuts right to the bone. Some series want to entertain. And then there are the ones that want something from you. The Good Mood firmly belongs in the second camp. It creeps under your skin and stays there long after the credits roll. Not because it shouts, but because it speaks quietly, precisely and uncompromisingly about family, guilt, addiction and the roles we never quite manage to shed – no matter how old we get. With Iben Hjejle and Pilou Asbæk in two richly layered lead performances, the series delivers some of the most complete and moving Danish television I’ve seen in a long time.
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 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’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.
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.
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.
