Milo Lane
If you live in Europe, or you’ve been to Europe, you know it usually takes about four hours of driving to get from one city to another. But if you live in the Balkans, you know those same four hours can — and will — stretch into eight. You’ll crawl through traffic jams, bogs, boulders, mountains, and backroads, across endless fields and forests, all just to reach a city Blind Guardian might consider playing in.
So, we got in the car at 9 AM and shut up about it accordingly. Each of us was a taut string in our respective seat, gas-stop caffeinated to the point of prophetic envisioning, blasting the rumored tour setlist as a coping mechanism for — well, choose your fighter:
a) a car going less than 2 mph for approximately two hours,
b) the gas-station bathroom line (1 € and ten years off your lifespan), or
c) a hail blizzard — in August.
I’m serious. Clearly, we were on the right path.
By the time we reached our destination, it was already an hour or two before the concert. We ditched our travel clothes, pulled on our concert shoes, and went straight to business — I had money to spend and a merch table to chew on. But, to my deepest regret, my friend and I were immediately slapped with a SOLD OUT sign on every shirt model, one by one, as we shuffled through the line. The shirts were gone (I ordered some the next day; they never came — if someone sues Nuclear Blast in the next few months, you know who it’ll be).
Inside, the air was thick enough to digest. People kept pouring in until the crowd density approached something between “warm embrace” and “oxygen rationing.” By the time the lights dimmed, I was inhaling pure secondhand enthusiasm.
And then — the first chord.
A jolt through the spine, caffeine replaced by adrenaline (and, admittedly, a hint of beer). The floor shook, the crowd roared, and Blind Guardian appeared like they hadn’t aged since the Second Age of Arda.
From the first moments, it was clear this wasn’t nostalgia. Not just because the opening track wasn’t one of the old hits — this was renewal. That same impossible blend of chaos and precision that made you fall in love with them back when your biggest problems were Math tests, underage drinking and acne. The new songs from The God Machine came out swinging — and they worked. No awkward “we have new songs so we have to play them” energy; they stood shoulder to shoulder with the classics, like they’d been on the setlist since ’88.
“Nightfall” appeared like a flipping (Catto won’t let me swear…) ferocious beast — a thousand of us howling the chorus like a single, deranged organism. You could feel the lights tremble with the sound. People weren’t just singing; they were testifying. By the time I heard the intro for “Into The Storm” roll around I’d already had a generous coat of foam at the mouth.
Soon enough came “Majesty.” I’ll admit, it was a moment that lost me some dignity. Hansi shouted, “Can you feel it?” and I, a grown adult — a lady — screamed back like a dog being baited with a piece of meat. Yeah, sir, I can freaking feel it. As a matter of fact I can feel it so much it’s a wonder I didn’t dissolve into steam.
Hansi’s voice? Ridiculous. Unexplainable. Not young — eternal. The kind of voice that sounds like it’s been echoing through mountains since the invention of power itself. He commands with warmth, humor, and effortless humility. When he laughs at his own jokes and then launches straight into the next song, it’s like he’s saying: “I don’t take myself too seriously — but this, right here, is serious. And I still mean every damn word.” It’s an honor to witness that kind of greatness in human form — a reminder that in a world hell-bent on dying, some things simply refuse to.
The drums thundered without mercy, the guitars sliced through the air with machine-like elegance, and the bass rolled beneath it all like tectonic plates shifting. The rhythm section didn’t just play — it galloped: relentless, cinematic, alive. Sure, the sound mix occasionally tangled — vocals battling guitars, high notes fading into the heat — but, let’s be honest here, who had it in their right mind to care? I didn’t. Not even a little. It felt cathartic. Perfection would’ve felt wrong. The sweat, the cracks, the rawness — that’s what makes a band and their music real. This isn’t Spotify; this is mythology, and for the love of God — this is rock’n’roll.
And when “Mirror Mirror” and “Valhalla” hit in united force, this was made clear, and all pretense dissolved. We were drenched, delirious, feral — a chorus of wet, wild animals shouting “Deliverance!” into the humid abyss.
When it was over, I stumbled outside into the rain and got soaked all over again — jacket and umbrella both still in my bag, on the other end of the city. No flips or damns were given. Because Blind Guardian in 2025 still sound ancient and alive — the same old gods, same thunder, same precision, same impossible heart. They’re not reliving their glory days; they’re still there. If you were at that concert, you left changed.
If you weren’t, don’t miss the next one near you. It’s not just a concert — it’s a resurrection, it’s one of the greats, still at the top of their game, and it is, ladies and gentlemen, another victory of heavy metal — worth every mile of hell and hail.
Metal Eclipse Reviews 