The 2025 edition began with a performance from Lubomyr Melnyk, a Ukrainian pianist, at Budolfi Church, Aalborg’s grandest building. Over six centuries worth of architecture and extravagant decoration set the stage to be graced by a scruffy Melnyk, who lamented the advent of plastic listening devices, extolled the virtues of listening live or on wooden speakers, and, ‘Maybe the hippies were right. I’m not a hippy, at least no longer. Even though… I just don’t have time to deal with my beard or – Oh no, I was supposed to have brushed my hair,’ he tailed away before offering us a beautiful mandala. His notes painted the finest Monet, each key press a ripple in a lily pond, a reflection of the mangroves above, as numerous as raindrops in a passing shower, each as delicate as a leaf’s rustle. His hands danced with impossible technique. Debussy and Gould sprung to mind, but this was truly a maximalist’s vision of Glass, Reich and Riley. What have the minimalists wrought? A warning of the evils of Spotify preceded his following piece, Butterfly, where he played a duet with a recording of himself. If the mandala acted as a testament to his technicality, Butterfly confirmed his intense musicality. Melodies sprung from the shifting harmonic undergrowth, as radiant as new blooming petals, before wilting away into the high ceilings and crypts below. Third and finally, Melnyk introduced a piece to acknowledge the bravery of Ukrainians. He spoke on Putin and Putin’s hate of Ukrainians, for ‘they are the only ones who can truly see the darkness of the Russian’s soul.’ The piece began with a ghost haunting the speakers. Mid-range feedback howled persistently, fading away only to return.

A stone throw’s away at Studenterhuset Café, Lars Bech Pilgaard took a violin bow to a guitar, and with it dared us to leave. Plenty did. His second piece exhibited more recognisable forms of technique, demonstrating an evident talent, which was gleefully wielded in pursuit of novelty instead of, say, harmony or melody or rhythm. ‘Imagine a bagpipe – or don’t,’ he suggested prior to a piece which was more reminiscent of Lightning Bolt without the drums. Whilst picking up a banjo for his next piece, he attempted to advertise his wares, before realising his folly. As he played, he mumbled and grumbled, completely enraptured by the soundscape he concocted, animated with eyes closed by the interplay of string against string, his body wracked around his instrument. At the end, he thanked us for sticking it out with him. I bought a record.

Another soloist closed out the Thursday at Studenterhuset Hall. Zola Jesus played a grand piano which inexplicably had its top faced towards the back of the stage instead of the audience. Following Pilgaard, the mere presence of song and structure seemed shocking. Her voice was the real star, the piano acted simply as a placeholder for an imagined orchestra. Jesus, too, was wrapped up in her own world, though on occasion she would remember the crowd, and engage with us with almost comical zeal. But the microphone was too close and the piano chords too plain. Thursday night’s a school night; we left early.

Utzon Center, the final building to be realised by Jørn Utzon, famed architect of the Sydney Opera House, sits on the bank of the Limfjord, its characteristically wave-like ceilings greet the passing sound. Virta, a trio of drummer, guitarist and trumpeter/digital miscellaneaist/wailing Finn, took to the stage, the windows behind providing a panorama of the Limfjord and Nørresundby. The three of them sculpted sound which expanded gradually as interlocking crescendos coalesced, iridescent streaks emerged as the air grew thicker. The drummer was blatantly very good. So good I wished to see the band sabotage their own rhythms, yet the operation remained slick. A smiley lead thanked us profusely between each song. A good start to the Friday schedule, they proved to be the highlight of the day.

Naima Bock and an accompanying quartet were already well under way by the time we had hurried to Vor Frelsers church. The candle-lit and warm interior, a stark contrast to the winter conditions outside, lulled us. The music, too, comforted like soup. Only a couple of false starts roused us from our drowsy state. Bock mentioned that she had chosen more subdued songs, to match the setting. Funny, given that the last musical act we’d seen perform here was Swans.

Headline act Diana Barkot of Pussy Riot performed next, but I took a chance on Snapped Ankles instead. A certain lairiness was purring through the room at Huset when I arrived, the nordjysk crowd itching for a good time. The synth beat provided cover for nods around the room, signalling intent. A trio of London lads dressed head-to-toe in camourflage gone silly sensed the hype and took to the mic. Alas, the drum machine never kicked in, the amp having caught flu on the flight over, according to the lead lad. ‘Fuck Spotify, for giving the amp flu,’ he then proclaimed, stroking his camo beard, whilst tech lad troubleshooted and lad-in-waiting giggled, ‘It can’t get any worse.’ The crowd trickled out and searched elsewhere, as each stop-start deflated our hopes of a party ever kicking off.

I still wanted to see Diana Burkot, and was excited to see her perform with New Age Doom, based off of my cursory pre-festival research. (According to my spies, Diana Burkot​’s solo show delivered a powerful message, however, what the message was remained unclear.) A solitary Greg Valou appeared at Studenterhuset Hall, apologised for a lack of a drummer, announced a set of mostly drone music with a sprinkling of field recordings and vocal tracks. No Pussy Riot in sight. Valou, too, took a violin bow to his guitar, but his use was less an exploration of form than Pilgaard, more an application of technique to layer texture upon more texture, blanketting us with excessive tog. With no rhythm or rhyme to mark undulations in time, a monotone set in. Though the field recordings added splashes of colour and Scratch’s voice will live forever, neither could stave off the disappointment of expectations left unfulfilled. (In contrast, my partner, who went to see Buzz’ Ayaz instead, was bouncing from the walls with band tee and record in hand when she got home.)

Gråbrødrekloster Museet has one of the coolest entrances to a museum. Its doorway hides in plain sight in the heart of Aalborg, right in front of Salling, the city’s busiest department store. Few notice the grey-robed monks adorning the standalone lift to the skeletons below. Forty-five minutes prior to a gig capped at 35, a gaggle of us were handed yellow tickets with instructions to meet later. When the time came, a man summoned us, took us through another entrance, offered us a shot of dubious liquor and we entered to see Elias Rønnenfelt bundled around his guitar. With characteristic nonchalance he threw himself into song, and against the glass panes guarding the museum’s treasures, setting off the alarms outside. His acoustic set included some Iceage tracks, a brilliant rendition of Calenture from his Marching Church project, plus a couple of requests at the end. Stripped to just himself and a guitar, Rønnenfelt’s talent for guitar-playing came to the fore, his songwriting already undeniable. I would have gladly listened to his entire discography (lucre, Vår, To The Comrades/Jackie, Dragged, even the atrocious Silent Night karaoke) multiple times repeated, however after 30 minutes it was all over. He invited us to join him later.

At Huset, Fitnesss terrorised us. Time, sound, space, light and mind became fluid. It was some neo-fucking-pagan shit. Words are inadequate. Awe-inducing. I left early.

Elias Rønnenfelt was on stage again, this time at Utzon Center flanked by a bassist and a drummer, stand-ins for Lola Hammerich of Baby In Vain (see last year’s review) and Tobias Laust. With the backing of a band, the songs were more fully realised than his solo set earlier. Heavy Glory and lucre featured heavily this time, with a short foray into Throughout The Borders. The collaborations with Dean Blunt sounded tantalisingly short; fragile songs like Soldier Song were carried by Rønnenfelt’s magnetism; Sound of Confusion proved that even without Iceage, Rønnenfelt can brew up a hell of a storm. A man old enough to know better started swaying and propped himself against the stand holding up a speaker, his festivities having already got the better of him, taking all those within his vicinity out of the moment, as the fear of timber loomed large. After too long a while, the drunk took himself away, and we were able to enjoy a beautiful solo rendition of Against The Moon, undisturbed by one of Pieter Bruegel’s bacchanalists.

Mermaid Chunky were in full swing by the time we arrived at Huset. The A-level art project gone overboard consisted of a duo in ridiculous outfits singing ridiculous songs in front of a visual art projection which may have been a video but I suspect to be an over-elaborate gigabyte-sized PowerPoint presentation. 2k era aesthetics gone 4k – roll over Superorganism, this is the sound of the Internet. When drip drip drop Mermaid Chunky broke into Little April Shower, my partner went wild. The crowd danced and pranced. Near the end, Mermaid Chunky asked giddily, ‘Can we get some dry ice in here please? The previous act was crazy, you couldn’t see anything. It was mad, there was a man crawling on the floor. We’ll pay.’

Eleven performances deep, we reconvened at Studenterhuset Café for the last act. Our spies reported back that Kanaan were good and Dungen too, and bemoaned various bodily ailments. A four-armed blunt-smoking-frog-caped rat-god-worshipper rushed on stage, told us all that Northern Europeans are perceived as cold in Colombia (to which an audience member replied, ‘we are!’) and then said how that we were actually all really rather nice. Julián Mayorga then began a tale about a dog which had been left rotting on the roadside, and how Jesus – this is a true story – walked past, disgusted and confused by it, and the experience of all of this from the perspective of the dead dog, in the form of song. Fun ensued, sore backs be damned. Chak chak chak chak confetti!