Wacken 2024 - Day 5

The final day starts the way all great tragedies do — with bad music and no sleep. Our newest tent neighbours, clearly spawned in an audio hell dimension, play some of the worst music I’ve ever heard until 2:30 AM. I fall asleep with my noise-cancelling headphones on, which is a first. At 4 AM I wake up with chills and nausea.

 

It’s Day 5. The last official festival day.

And I’ve hit the wall.

 

Despite not drinking excessively. Despite glamping. Despite the objectively perfect weather—I’m fried.

I’m tired of public living. Of brass music. Of having neighbours.

I’m ready to go home.

The weather forecast says rain in the afternoon and Sunday morning, so we decide to pack today. The only band left on my list is Cradle of Filth, and that’s not until evening.

 

Breakfast drags into noon because we still have an obscene amount of food to get through. I applaud Jan-Hendrik for surviving on nothing but Bionella all week.

Marie’s still wrestling with her Grauburgunder Tetra Pak like it’s a cursed relic.

There’s garlic cream cheese. Olives. Hot peppers. Gnocchi. Lentil stew.

Marie claims she isn’t hungry.

 

“Um Hunger geht es hier nicht. Niemand hat hier mehr Hunger.”

 

Exactly.

 

Around half one, JH changes out of his sleep shirt with the energy of a man crawling out of a sarcophagus.

 

“Mir ist warm, meine Schnürsenkel sind auf und ich kann meine Mütze nicht finden.”

 

We begin to pack.

Packing is a nightmare. Again.

 

Chris is demounting the tents like he’s in a death match. I queue for a rental handcart at the Residenz Evil desk, watching people buy one outright for €99 without flinching. There’s so much untapped money in desperate, blistered festival-goers.

 

Honestly, the Residenz Evil camp has been amazing. But the logistics? Hellish.

Dragging all your gear from carpark to tent and back again is a punishment from the old gods.

 

Please, Wacken. Consider: Drop-off zones. More handcarts. Rental shuttles with tiny golf carts.

I would’ve sold my soul for one.

 

Two hours later, it’s done. The plot is clean. We head to the Residenz Evil tent for one final falafel salad, a meal that exists somewhere between breakfast and dinner and spiritual nourishment.

 

Right on cue, it starts pouring. The tent fills instantly.

We finish the EXIT game. On screen, Sebastian Bach gets gloriously drenched.

Rain pounds the tent. The game ends. We sit in falafel-fuelled silence and watch Sebastian Bach try to out-glam the storm on the Faster Stage.

 

When it ends, so does the rain.

 

Marie and JH head off to finally see the Wacken village — something I did on Wednesday.

They do not enjoy it.

 

Apparently Saturday afternoon is prime time for boozy tourist energy. Think less "festival spirit" and more "beer-staggering NPCs in Metallica shirts."

I finally put on my wellies and head to the Louder Stage for Cradle of Filth. Unthinkable to have lugged them all the way to Wacken without ever using them. This is their moment. They were made for this.

Behemoth are playing on Faster, and Amon Amarth are about to go on Harder—so the Louder stage is relatively chill.

 

I could have walked right into the front row.

 

I choose not to.

We find a spot on a raised area farther back with a perfect view.

Of course, by the time the set starts, the area fills up.

 

And yes—they have to compete with the Viking-metal fog machine next door.

Dani Filth himself snarls into the mic:

“Let's drown out this Viking metal bullshit.”

God bless him.

 

The first time I spot Dani on stage pre-show, I have a real fangirl moment.

Cradle of Filth was my gateway. Not just into extreme vocals—into a whole other world of sound.

 

Is Midian their most beloved album? No.

Is it mine? Absolutely.

 

I’m a bit sad not to hear Cthulhu Dawn or Lord Abortion.

But I get the classics:

The Principle of Evil Made Flesh, Dusk and Her Embrace, Cruelty Brought Thee Orchids, Nymphetamine.

And finally — Her Ghost in the Fog. Perfection.

 

I’d heard horror stories about Dani’s vocals live, but he nails it.

It’s not flawless—Cradle of Filth’s sound is lush and layered and deeply overproduced—but he pulls it off.

 

Meanwhile, Jan-Hendrik decides it’s circle pit time and pushes his feet to the limit.

“Mein rechter Fuß ist komplett dysfunktional!”

 

I go off in search of a bin. Somehow get lost. Miss the farewell. Panic.

Find my crew again just in time for the drone show and the announcement reel.

 

Dimmu Borgir is on the bill.

My heart does a little something.

Not enough to book next year.

But enough to hope I’ll catch them on tour.

The infield is still lit as we turn away.

Hämatom and Mayhem are still playing, but we’ve reached the edge of our stamina.

 

We head to the campground one last time.

Say goodbye to the toilet trailer like it's an old war buddy.

And walk to the car—into the night—hearts full, feet broken, and absolutely done.

 

My first Wacken is over.

 

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