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Diary of a neurospicy metalhead between the sacred and the profane

I wake up at eight and start my liturgy: first, coffee. And not just any coffee, but a dead-serious black coffee, the kind with Austro-Hungarian Empire vibes,who like me grows up where the empire ended, they carry these things in their blood. Then, the ADHD meds. Except at some point, I realize I’ve already taken them earlier. Double dose. And right there, the day takes a turn all its own, warped and fluid. Let’s just say the neurospicy side of me decided Copenhell needed to be blasted at maximum volume right from the get-go.

Dogma: is Satanism a subgenre of Catholicism?

Opening a festival with the very first slot is never easy, and Dogma hit the stage dressed as nuns. Satanic nuns, sacred and profane right out of the gate. Critics are slamming their live performance, but what I saw was a great show and massive energy. The extra gear is the lead guitarist, Lamia, and that’s where half the charm lies: Lamia is a stage name, a mask, and behind the mask, the person can change without the band ever confirming a thing. Secret identities, cult status, artfully cultivated mystery. The one I saw commands the stage like a boss and sticks her tongue out Gene Simmons-style, so much so that Stefano, glued to his zoom lens, reached a point where you couldn’t tell if he was taking photos or having a mystical revelation. Heavy stuff, and I was loving it. Then comes what Deadpool would call pure Madonna Power: the cover of “Like a Prayer,” with the entire expanse of metalheads singing along in chorus. A incredibly powerful image. And here is the question I turn over to you, the answer is yours to give: could Satanism actually be a subgenre of Catholicism? The girls have South American origins, they are daughters of Mary to the core, and at that point, the sacred and the profane converge.

[Stefano] Yes, I’m here too. I was already down in the pit shooting the band’s vision from up close, but this is Davide’s diary and I’ll only step in as a guest. You’ll find my incursions marked by the box! [/]

Twenty-One Children: punk from Soweto and a broken string Perhaps the coolest gig of the day. They come from Soweto, Johannesburg, and yes, a punk scene in Soweto really does exist, go look it up, because these guys have something to say. Raw, hard punk just the way I like it, skater culture brought right into the South African context. Beautiful energy, a drummer to watch out for, and we even met them in person: down-to-earth people, the kind you chat with and instantly feel at ease. The highlight: first song, first minute, the guitarist snaps a string. For a band used to tiny venues, standing on the biggest stage of their career, it’s that classic moment of bewilderment. A quick string change? No. They push forward like true punks and deliver a killer set, with the crowd flying in the moshpit. All in the garden of the Gehenna stage, a truly special place.

[Stefano] Breaking the D string for a band playing without a bass is a death sentence, but not for them, they throw heart, stomach, liver, and even a piece of spleen into their punk. Finally, a band using punk to actually say something. After tons of party punk-rock and generic obsolote rants that are at least twenty years late. This is the truly precious kind of punk, the one that tells stories. Stories of slimy oppression, of lived injustice, of hope in rundown neighborhoods, of mutual aid, of lost friends, and the need to break free without running away. Try living in their songs for just a moment. This is the sole reason punk still exists. [/]

Alice Cooper, seventy-eight years of hell under the sun

One of the main courses. Alice Cooper, seventy-eight years old, with an energy that makes me feel lucky to live in an era where I can still admire him live performing his legendary tracks. I enjoyed every bit of it, up on the hill, under a scorching sun, because these days Denmark is hitting unprecedented temperatures. A hellish heat. A true Copen-Hell.

Slay Squad: Breaking Stuff

[Stefano]

Davide and I are Agents of Chaos. But after more than ten years at Copenhell together, it feels almost like being a married couple. So, while Davide stands spellbound by Alice Cooper, I go to the bathroom to do dirty things.
The dirty things in question are the nu-metal sounds of Slay Squad. Intro with “Californication” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, featuring Cheeze pulling off three minutes of scratching and some embarrassing dance moves: a real cringeworthy start, perfect for thinning out the crowd and driving away the poorly motivated.
Then the entrance of Brahim and Keilo, dropping in with the full weight of the backing track and a guitar riff that fries the speakers. Unscrupulous agitators. They trigger a wall of death on the very first song and keep instigating the crowd, barely caring about the transitions between tracks.
Let’s be clear: this gig isn’t about the music, it’s about the chaos. Call it rap-metal or nu-metal, it changes nothing: the scratching grates against the massive guitars, the rapping throws fuel on the fire urging destruction, and on stage are six criminals pumping up the crowd to cause as much damage as possible. Devastating.
Sole purpose: to make Copenhell collapse.
Throw away the whining of Linkin Park. Throw away the despair of Korn. Take the street attitude of Ice Cube, shake it all up with blatant cockiness, and here are the instigators from Los Angeles, in full Woodstock ’99 mood. [/]

Suicidal Tendencies: Mike Muir and the skater gospel

A band I’ve loved forever, so much so that back in high school I drew their logo on my backpack. A skate legend, and the skate philosophy is all right there: if you fall, you get back up. Mike Muir on stage, the same guy who told me as a kid to think with my own head, not to do what others tell me, you can’t bring me down. He still says it today, and I carry this inside me: it shaped me as a kid and still gives me so much now. A special place in my heart, forever, for Mike Muir. And then the bass. Twenty-two years old, and it’s Tye Trujillo, son of Metallica’s Trujillo. He moves just like his father, maybe right now he’s even better. Here, “family” is the right word in the most literal sense: Robert used to play in Suicidal even before Metallica, and Tye grew up inside this circle, surrounded by Mike Muir and the historic members. This is family, and true family values, because in the end, Mike Muir is the big dad who teaches you the right things.

Iron Maiden: the best setlist ever

We get to the heavy legends, and Iron Maiden deliver the perfect concert. I’ve seen them many times, but in my opinion, this is the best setlist ever. The thing that blows me away is Bruce Dickinson’s form: he sings better now than five, six, seven years ago. Every single track gave me goosebumps. The real gem is “Infinite Dreams,” which I didn’t expect and had never seen them perform live before: hearing it made me feel good in a way few things can. “Infinite Dreams” is a track from Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, and for me it’s worth double: that album was the very first metal cassette I bought right when it came out, it’s been in my heart forever, and with this setlist, it returned home. Then the finale. “Aces High” kicks off, “Fear of the Dark” hits, and you think okay, it’s done, fantastic. But no, they pull out “Wasted Years.” What can you do about it? Nothing. Perfect.

[Stefano]
Self-sacrifice.
Poor Bruce is resigned: he introduces “Run to the Hills” and “Phantom Of The Opera” for the umpteenth time, almost begging for mercy in front of the crowd: “Tour for fifty years of career… and I’m still here singing this song…” [this, once again!]. And yet, the professional delivers his best, offering a textbook Iron Maiden performance. Obviously, we don’t give a damn about trampling his feelings: we are just ecstatic to have “Powerslave,” “The Trooper,” and the other classics sung right in our faces yet again, as if there were no tomorrow.
When you hear these tracks live, feel loved. Bruce is doing it for you, solely for you.
Meanwhile, Janick Gers is in his own personal dream: swaying above reality, serene and unreachable. Ataraxia. Nirvana. I wish I were like him. [/]

Konvent: closing the loop

losing the evening with Konvent. I’ve been following them since what was probably their very first gig in a tiny venue: four girls in sneakers, jeans, and t-shirts, and me thinking, as Nino D’Angelo would say, “surely these girls are about to play some melodic power metal.”
Instead, they blast into a doom so deep I hadn’t heard the likes of it in ages. Right there I said Hallelujah, I’m a believer. Their show keeps evolving year after year: now everything is bathed in red, fantastic costumes, and the violinist on a few tracks adds that touch of romanticism. That balance between romanticism and doom makes them, put bluntly, one of the greatest and most interesting things Denmark has to offer in the genre.
If you dig doom, listen and support. And here the day’s loop closes perfectly: starting with Dogma ending with Konvent. From the sacred to the profane and back. A single line running through it all.

Day one archived. Dogma opened dressed as nuns, Konvent closed in doom: sacred and profane on the very same day. And in between, Mike Muir, reminding me of what I’ve been repeating to myself for thirty years: think with your own head and don’t let anyone pull you down. You Can’t Bring Me Down, exactly.

What Copenhell is

Copenhell, to me and many others, is like Christmas. Actually better, because you don’t have the stress of buying presents. It’s the moment where we all gather as a community—the metal community. So many friends you only see during these days, sharing moments that stick with you. And it’s that kind of thing that no other place can give you.