When sacred music meets fangirl energy and a dodgy sound mix.
This one’s hard to write.
We went to see Alcest in Dresden on October 7th for their Écailles de lune anniversary tour. I had originally planned for the Hamburg show the week before — but life (aka family obligations) got in the way. Alcest is one of my absolute favourite bands, so we pivoted. Got Dresden tickets instead. Made the trip.
And I hate to say it—I really hate to say it—but it was a total waste of money.
There. I said it.
The Setting: Good Vibes & Bad Decisions
First things first — Stromwerk in Dresden? Great venue. Clean. Good-sized stage. I had no beef with the location.
Admission was at 6 PM, and the first band was set to start at 7. I hadn’t done my homework—I expected The Devil’s Trade, as stated on the ticket, and that was it. I had no idea there would be three support acts.
So—I went to the front row at 7 PM, assuming I’d hold my spot for the set I came for.
Mistake #1.
A Wall of Doom and One Lost Guitar
First up: Fvnerals. Dense, atmospheric doom meets ambient despair. Not exactly a party starter. I didn’t hate it, but it felt like being swallowed by fog while someone slowly pressed a pillow over your soul. Their 2023 album Let the Earth Be Silent is probably great—just not what my evening needed to begin with.
Next: Heretoir—and to my surprise, they actually lifted the mood. I didn’t know them, but their frontman was charming, the music vibed, and if you like Alcest, you’ll probably love Heretoir.
But—the sound was off. From the front row, I could hear the guitarist’s picking—literally. Not through the speakers. Through the air. One of the guitars wasn’t coming through the mix at all.
Enter: The Collapse
Third act: The Devil’s Trade. I was genuinely looking forward to this one—his dark doom-folk from Hungary is right up my alley. But then—my body betrayed me.
Maybe it was the standing. Or the cocktail with dinner. Or the droning lights and thick, vibrating soundwaves. Whatever it was—I blacked out like a teenage girl at a Backstreet Boys concert in 1998.
Chris got me out. Suddenly I found myself sitting on the pavement, sipping warm plastic cup water, while The Devil’s Trade played inside without me.
Glorious.
Back In. But Not Back In It.
I rallied. Got back in. Even managed to inch closer to the stage again. But it didn’t feel right anymore. My body felt fragile, my mood was sour, and then—Then came the part I’m really uncomfortable writing about.
I Don’t Want to Share This Music
Alcest came on.
And I realised—I don’t like sharing this band.
It sounds ridiculous. Elitist. Petty. And yet, there it was.
Alcest’s music is sacred to me. It’s personal. Introspective. The kind of thing I listen to on my headphones, alone, usually when I’m feeling something intense and unexplainable.
So there I was—still a bit wobbly—surrounded by a front row of giggling, squealing, "I love you!"-yelling fangirls. And honestly? It completely threw me off. I was staggered. I never expected that energy at a blackgaze show. But apparently, Alcest has a very devoted female fanbase. And listen—good for them. But that kind of performative pop-star worship felt so deeply out of step with the emotion I needed to access to enjoy the music.
It wrecked me.
The Final Straw: The Sound
And then—the sound mix. Oh God, the sound mix. Neige’s voice—barely audible. Completely drowned out by the instruments. No clarity. No emotional nuance. I couldn’t hear his interludes. I couldn’t feel the songs. It just became a wall of sound, and not the good kind.
Eventually, I moved to the side for air. It didn’t help the mix. Not a great sign.
We actually left before the set ended—something I’ve only done once before. (Kelly Family, 1995. I was ten. I was tired.)
Still Love Them. Just… Not Like This.
I left with sadness. And anger. And a quiet sense of betrayal—not by the band, but by the night itself.
Alcest is still one of my absolute favourite bands. I’ve seen enough incredible recordings to know they’re not bad live. But in Dresden? The sound was broken, the atmosphere was off, and I was emotionally unequipped to share them with strangers that night.
Maybe I’ll see them again someday. In a different venue. A different context.
Or maybe I’ll keep them where they’ve always felt best—in my headphones, in the dark, where no one yells "I love you" during Écailles de lune.