The rain pirouettes on the window, delicate feet tapping a rhythm on glass, while the Swiss Jura unfolds like a lover’s sigh. I am going to Belfort and I am joyful. My eyes, enamored, drift along, swaying with the soft hum of the bus, which cradles me in solitude. I return to Eurocks, not as the one who works, who introduces, who speaks—but as the one who listens. Once, I was the voice behind the bands, the curator of conversations at the press tent. Now, I am just a heart carried by the current of song.

Eurocks, for me, is more than a festival—it’s a pulse. It’s Paul Simonon’s legacy echoing through the cables of a mythical web radio I built with a friend, Alexandre. It’s late-night interviews with Louise Attaque, Diplo, and the zany hum of Mr. Oizo. It’s a whirlwind of sounds, a wild embrace with Major Lazer, the smoky allure of Amy Winehouse, the raw grit of Arctic Monkeys, and the cool whispers of Sting. I’ve loved it all.

This year, a band I adore will take me somewhere deeper, but first, let’s linger in this July night of 2024. The air is heavy with anticipation. Bar Italia emerges—a trio that hums like Sonic Youth’s apprentices, without the bite. Their simplicity charms the crowd, spinning them into a familiar trance. The echoes of Wet Leg and Lauran Hibberd float on the breeze—Bar Italia slides right into the fold, a comfortable companion.

And then, SCH. A thunderclap. The Marseillais sweeps through, untouchable, indomitable. His words are blades, slicing through the night air, sharp and clean. “Autobahn,” a tribute to his father, sends us racing down nocturnal highways, past the barriers of time and memory. SCH is a poet draped in beats and smoke, his show a spell cast over the crowd, leaving tears glistening in the corners of our eyes.

Heilung follows, conjuring something ancient. The stage is a forest, the music a ritual. A horned figure, half-druid, half-dream, chants incantations that tremble in the air. The pulse of the drums, the metallic ring of the unknown—it draws us deep into the earth, into a place where dreams are made of smoke and bone. Their performance is not music—it is a trance, a journey we take with no maps.

Breeders, between shadows and resonances

And then, The Breeders. They return from the ‘90s, hand-in-hand with nostalgia. Kim Deal’s voice floats like a ghost over the crowd, the echoes of Pod and Last Splash soft yet indelible. But the magic feels distant—beautiful, yes, but muted. A shadow of the vibrant chaos they once were. Still, there is enchantment in their return, even if it’s a softer spell.

Sum 41 crashes in next, and the night is reborn. My punk rock heart beats strong, fueled by the raw joy of « Canadifornian riffs ». Sum 41 is everything it ever was—melodies that grab you by the collar, a pop-punk energy that lifts you into the air. “In Too Deep” rings out, and for a moment, time halts. Their farewell tour is a firework display—“The Hell Song” explodes, “Still Waiting” detonates. The night vibrates with their unrelenting force, and they remain immortal in the pantheon of US/CA punk-rock.

Then, the earth shifts. IDLES step up, and the world tilts. The Greenroom becomes a battleground of sound, their political rage for Palestine weaving through the crowd like a spark in the dark. IDLES is more than a band—they are a movement, a community bound by rebellion and love. “Danny Nedelko,” “Dancers”—each song a fist raised, each beat a blow to oppression. They tear the night apart, leaving us breathless.

You eurock my world

And in the quiet aftermath, The Inspector Cluzo. A duo that feels like home—earthy, unadorned, raw. Their music, unpolished but true, wraps around us like old leather. Their tribute to Neil Young’s “Hey Hey, My My” rings out, soft and powerful, a hymn to authenticity. By the end, we are not just listeners—we are travelers, stepping into their world where simplicity reigns and honesty is king. They close the night with grace, leaving behind a crowd drunk on the purity of sound, hearts full and heavy with joy.

And as the night settles, I too am full—of songs, of memories, of rain dancing on the glass and a festival that sings with the pulse of a thousand lives. Thank you, dear Eurocks, for rocking my world, one more time.

David Glaser.