I prepped for war. I got a livestream and some horses.
Boy, oh boy—what an absolute bastard of a week.
I’d been prepping for Wacken 2023 for over a year. The group was set, the camper booked, my battle vest lovingly stitched together one patch at a time. I even started pre-listening to the line-up like the try-hard I am. Kids? Shipped off to the North Sea. Husband? Briefed. Bank account? Wounded but willing. I was ready.
And then—I didn’t go.
You Know the Story
Unless you’ve been living under a dry rock, you already know how it went down. The media coverage was relentless. Wacken 2023: 20,000 metalheads turned away. And yes—I was one of them.
Was I unlucky? Lazy? Sensible? A poser not worthy of the sacred mud?
Honestly, depends what day you ask me.
All I know is: this wasn’t just a festival for me. This was my light on the horizon. Missing it hit harder than I’d like to admit.
The Camper That Wouldn’t Go
We picked up the camper on Monday. By then, arrival was already officially “on hold.” Still, we clung to hope. Our plan: leave Tuesday morning. Then, at 2AM, I get a text from the guy we rented the camper from. In short: If you knowingly drive this into the swamp, I will sue you into another dimension.
Apparently, towing damage wouldn’t be covered by insurance. GEFÄHRDET DEN CAMPER NICHT. My brain went into full meltdown mode. Sleep? Absolutely not.
Tuesday came. Still no green light. Rain. Mud. Official arrival still paused. People still went. We sat on the couch, cracking open Wacken beers, and started a Supernatural Season 1 rerun as a coping mechanism.
The Backup Plan That Also Died
New plan: drive to Itzehoe Wednesday, park the camper, and take the shuttle in. Was it the Wacken experience I’d dreamed of? Not even close. But I was willing.
Then, 5AM Wednesday:
Arrival on hold became full admission STOP.
Wacken had officially shut the gates. And yet? Thousands ignored it. Many still got in.
We didn’t.
Could We Have Made It? Maybe. Would I Have Enjoyed It? Doubtful.
Could we have made it? Maybe.
Would it have been worth it? I honestly don’t know.
Am I just one of those poser Wacken fans who aren’t metal enough to power through? Probably.
We decided that “going at all costs” wasn’t worth it—not if it meant sacrificing every ounce of joy I’d hoped for. I’d been dreaming of five days with friends. Beer, laughter, new faces. Campfire chats on the Metality campground. Helping out at the booth. Just—being part of that community everyone raves about.
But if I’m brutally honest with myself: By Wednesday, I was already done. Mentally wrecked. Emotionally fried. The idea of driving to Wacken—or some godforsaken cow field nearby—hoping to find a shuttle, hoping to be let in, hoping not to get stranded in the rain like some sad extra in The Road—I couldn’t do it.
Standing knee-deep in mud, soaked through, sleep-deprived, freezing, watching bands through fogged-up glasses—no. At that point, it would’ve taken a selfie with Ville Valo personally handing me a dry hoodie and a life purpose to shift my mood. And even then: only maybe.
Wacken (Otter Edition)
So we stayed home. We were officially told to.
We cracked open the beer stash, fired up the grill, pulled out the tarp, and streamed Wacken via that cursed Magenta TV app. We put on our wellies and sat in the rain—in Otter—like the feral little metalheads we are.
Honestly? It wasn’t the worst evening.
Shoutout to my Horstforce for making it weirdly wholesome.
Sea Lavender and Vegan Dessert: Not Exactly Metal, But Fine
The next day, Chris and I ditched the tarp and joined our kids and my parents at the North Sea. Instead of canned ravioli and pit grime, I got:
- Sea lavender fields
- Sandbanks
- Sunset wine on the dike
- A three-course vegan meal
- Death by chocolate (emotionally and literally)
On the drive home, Iron Maiden came on and our odometer hit 66,666 km. I choose to believe this was the universe’s way of throwing horns at me.
The Livestream That Hurt Too Much
I tried watching some concerts via livestream. Emphasis on “tried.” It just made the FOMO worse. The social media commentary? Unbearable. Everyone smugly muddy and having the time of their lives while I was crying into a tofu burger.
I went dark.
2024? We'll See.
Wacken 2023 is over. Pre-sale for 2024 is about to begin. I don’t know if I’ll try again. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.
For now? I’ll channel that sad energy into music I love, smaller gigs I can actually attend, and blog posts like this one
—where I process the metal trauma in my usual way: dry sarcasm and light self-loathing.
Next up:
Alcest. Solstafir. Klash of the Ruhrpott.
Maybe Prophecy Fest.
Who knows.
But for now? I’m piecing myself back together. Stay tuned.