Wacken 2024 - Day 3

Wacken Day 3 begins at 8:30 AM with an unwelcome blast of Bavarian brass music from the neighbouring plot.

A charming cultural experience, if it weren’t so aggressively loud. I roll out of my tent, deeply grumpy. The toilets are no longer clean. There are queues for everything. This is the first morning I don’t love being here.

 

Things improve marginally after coffee.

Marie uses Chris’s multitool to puncture my blister (do not try this at home, unless you, too, travel with a doctor and questionable festival hygiene standards).

Always good to have medical professionals around when you’re falling apart.

I’d planned to catch Dio Disciples at noon. I do not. Motivation levels are critically low.

Instead, we linger at breakfast and start playing an EXIT game.

Well—they play. I mostly zone out. Logical thinking isn’t exactly my strength, especially not on 3-day-old sleep and a bandaged toe.

 

I have only one must-see today: Uada, at 6:15 PM. So I conserve energy like a sensible gremlin and stay in the shade all afternoon. It’s peaceful. It’s cool. I even doze off a few times. It almost feels like a holiday.

 

Minus the cocktails. And the pool. And the basic comfort.

 

Meanwhile, Marie and Jan-Hendrik head off to see The Sweet and Mister Misery. JH takes his kids’ plushies – a dinosaur and a mouse – onto the Holy Ground for a bit of chaos enrichment.

The Wasteland Warriors, naturally, show their soft side and pose for selfies with the crew. War-torn post-apocalyptic aesthetics and plushie diplomacy?

Truly a festival for all tastes.

At 4:30 PM, I finally peel myself from the camping chair and drag my body toward the W.E.T. Stage.

There’s still space in the front row. I get to watch the soundcheck. There are even fleeting glimpses of actual faces beneath the hoods. It's thrilling, in that low-key cryptid-sighting way.

 

While we wait, Messiah are unleashing soulless death-thrash from the nearby Headbangers Stage at full war-volume. My ears are pleading for mercy. After Messiah, we witness a marriage proposal on the Headbangers Stage. It’s being repeated several times—loudly—that the woman has no idea whatsoever what’s happening, because she’s deaf-mute.

Yeah, well. She’s being hauled up on stage by her boyfriend—so unless she’s stupid—whatever.

 

Back at the W.E.T. Stage, there’s a small army of photographers in the pit. Their equipment is intimidating. I’m watching actual professionals prepare to capture the unseeable.

 

Uada begin with a long, atmospheric intro—three minutes of wolf howls and rising tension.

Then: darkness. Cold. Absolute black metal clarity.

Their set is 45 minutes of hypnotic power. Understated stage presence. No crowd interaction. Pure atmosphere. Despite the sunlight and heat, they conjure something glacial.

 

Jake Superchi’s vocals are flawless. Just like the records. Goosebumps—repeatedly.

I’m already planning to see them again in Hamburg this October.

 

As the set ends, I’m stunned it’s already over. I float back to the tent to change into something warmer. The sun’s gone. The evening begins.

From here on, things get weird.

 

Marie and Jan-Hendrik head to Alligatoah on the Louder Stage—only to find it’s been closed off due to overcrowding.

We end up loitering between Faster and Louder, where Accept are playing—and the sound is blending into an unholy mess.

I try to focus. I fail.

 

None of us want to see Scorpions. That is a group decision.

Chris, Marie, and JH stay put for Opeth.

I, in a move that will haunt me for days, decide to go see Trelldom.

I see Gaahl before the set. Arms crossed. Pacing slowly. Stroking his beard.

He’s everything I hoped for — mysterious, stoic, unsettling.

I realise I came here less for the music and more because he fascinates me. As a figure in metal history, he’s magnetic.

 

While I wait, Jungle Rot are playing the Headbangers Stage.

They’re a pleasant surprise. Fast, fun, death metal that hits hard. A bit repetitive, but solid. The double bass kicks feel like internal organ rearrangement. I don’t hate it.

 

Chris finds me after escaping the Opeth crowd. It took him ages to wade through the Scorpions fan mass.

He missed the second half of Opeth to meet me for Trelldom. I feel immediately guilty.

 

And then the set begins.

 

The light is a photographer’s nightmare—fog, red glare, nothing visible.

The sound?

Worse.

I can’t tell if Gaahl is singing, speaking, or just standing there vibing menacingly.

The first song is over eight minutes of erratic noise. The vocals—if they’re happening—are completely buried.

 

It’s experimental. Artsy.

I want to like it. I try to like it.

I do not like it.

 

Photographers start giving up. People are drifting away. Chris and I exchange a look.

We leave early.

 

And that’s how I missed Opeth for a man in fog doing performance art on hard mode.

 

I will carry this regret to my grave.

Back at the campground, we have a new neighbour.

They are really into Rammstein.

So is their speaker system.

They share it with us until 2 AM. Generously.

 

Someone behind our tent is snoring like they’re paid for it.

 

Finally—after three days—I’m experiencing the true Wacken campground atmosphere: insomnia, rage, and heavy industrial.

 

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