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If there’s one thing better than starting a new year, it’s starting it by willingly launching your body into a pit of sweaty strangers while Kaos Urbano roars through three decades’ worth of street-punk gospel. On January 9th, 2026 , Rock City won’t just host a concert — it’ll host a political awakening disguised as a fistfight, a communal scream therapy session, a righteous, beer-splattered uprising wrapped in leather and distortion. Kaos Urbano roll into València on their 30th Anniversary Tour , and the posters alone already feel like warning labels: cracked red concrete backgrounds, skull insignias, fists raised like someone replaced your New Year’s resolutions with Molotov cocktails. Thirty years of snarling into microphones, shredding stages, and reminding Spain that punk is a lifestyle, not a nostalgia act. These guys don’t tour — they invade . And Rock City? Poor Rock City. The venerable temple of Valencian rock is about to be turned into an underground bunker full of stomped floors, hoarse throats, and the intoxicating fragrance of sweat, speed, and simmering rebellion. By the time Kaos Urbano hit the stage, the venue lights will tremble like they’re reconsidering their career choices. But the real mischief starts earlier in the night, when A Tercio Paleo storms in like a prehistoric battering ram made of riffs and rage. They sound like someone accidentally resurrected a troop of battle-drunk Iberian warriors, handed them instruments, and whispered: “Play it loud enough to wake the ghosts.” Their set is the kind of raw, feral energy that forces you to question whether you came to a gig or accidentally joined a guerrilla training camp. Perfect warm-up. Or warning shot. By the time Kaos Urbano take command, the place will be boiling: boots thudding, throats shredding, the crowd chanting like a single organism that’s decided democracy can wait until after the encore. Expect classics barked like manifestos, new tracks hurled like bricks through the window of complacency, and a band performing with the kind of hunger you only get after thirty years of refusing to shut up. January 9th. Rock City. València.Kaos Urbano and A Tercio Paleo.Start the year with chaos — the honest kind, the sweaty kind, the kind that leaves your ears ringing and your convictions sharpened. Rolling Stone would tell you this is a must-see.Gonzo journalism tells you this is a mandatory baptism by noise . For more information and tickets: Gazpatxofestcultura

Villena isn’t ready. It never is. Every year the town wakes up, rubs its eyes, and suddenly finds itself hosting the closest thing Spain has to a punk-rock exorcism: the F*ck Censorship Festival — the loudest middle finger to polite society this side of the Pyrenees. And on January 31st, 2026 , as the cold gnaws at your bones and the sun remembers it has better things to do than shine, 5,000 maniacs will pack themselves into the Plaza de Toros Cubierta like a riot waiting for a beat.This year’s lineup? A Molotov cocktail disguised as a poster. Narco are rolling in like the uninvited cousins who drink all your booze and set your shed on fire. Between their industrial beatdowns and Sevillian swagger, expect the place to vibrate like a cathedral possessed. The crowd won’t just move — it’ll convulse. Then the Basque war machines arrive: Segismundo Toxicómano , Kaotiko , and the ever-feral Envidia Kotxina . It’s like someone opened a portal to a punk multiverse where everything smells faintly of petrol and rebellion. Every chorus feels like it was smuggled in past border control, wrapped in barbed wire and bad decisions. Koma will stomp onto that stage like a giant steel boot smashing through the last fragile bits of your eardrums. Pure metallic artillery. No survivors. No apologies. Porretas , meanwhile, will bring that Madrid street-punk warmth — the kind that hugs you, insults you, and hands you a beer in the same breath. Kaos Urbano ? They’re here to start fights with reality itself. If the venue isn’t shaking like a dying washing machine by the end of their set, check your pulse. And then, the wild card: Loncha Velasco — the kind of band name that already sounds like a crime. Expect chaos. Expect sweat. Expect something you’ll have to explain to your therapist someday. This isn’t a festival. It’s a pressure cooker with guitars. A gathering of the ungovernable. A celebration of every scream ever strangled by polite society. The organizers slap “F*ck the Censorship Festival” on the banner, but it might as well read: “Abandon all restraint, ye who enter here.” Tickets started at 29€ + fees — a laughably small price to pay to have your soul sandblasted by power chords and anti-everything anthems. And inside that packed bullring in Villena, where tradition used to demand blood, the only sacrifice will be your voice, your hearing, and your last shred of respectability. January 31st. Villena. F*ck Cnsrshp.Not just a festival — a yearly ritual where Spain tears out its own stitched-up tongue and lets it scream. For tickets and more information: F*CK CNSRSHP

Valencia is about to get a jolt of high-voltage, hyper-stylized rock ’n’ roll. On December 2nd, 16 Toneladas will host The Molotovs—a band whose rise has been propelled by a cocktail of razor-tight riffs, restless energy, and a sleek visual identity that feels equal parts retro cool and modern bite. The promotional artwork for the show says it all: two sharply dressed performers lounging across mid-century chairs, dripping with attitude. Their suits are bright and immaculate, their posture casual but deliberate—a duo radiating the kind of self-assuredness that usually belongs to groups several albums into their careers. Their image isn’t just branding; it’s a manifesto. The Molotovs look like a band ready to steal the spotlight, and onstage they tend to do exactly that. At 16 Toneladas—a venue known for its gritty, sweat-tilted rock shows—the band’s polished aesthetic is likely to collide beautifully with the club’s industrial charm. Expect a set that moves fast: The Molotovs are known for songs that pack melody, punch, and momentum into tight frames, the kind of tracks that feel tailor-made for bouncing crowds and tightly packed dance floors. What truly elevates them, though, is chemistry. Even in a still image, the partnership between the two musicians feels electric. Onstage, that connection manifests through synchronized sharp turns, tightly fused vocal lines, and a rhythmic drive that rarely lifts off the accelerator. Their music channels the tuneful bite of late-’70s new-wave and the precision of early-’00s revival rock, but with a contemporary boldness that keeps it from wandering into nostalgia. If past tours are any indication, fans in Valencia should expect a performance that’s part glamorous spectacle, part garage-pop detonation. The Molotovs don’t just play songs—they attack them, shaping short, kinetic bursts of sound into something that feels like rock’s vital signs coming back stronger. And in a venue as intimate as 16 Toneladas, that force is bound to hit even harder. For tickets and more information: 16 Toneladas

On Friday night, Valencia’s Sala Moon turned into a time machine. Nick Lowe, the venerable British master of pub rock and power-pop, took the stage backed by his inseparable partners, Los Straitjackets—the most charmingly raucous instrumental band you could hope for, all surf-guitar swagger, tight rhythms, and lucha-libre masks adding a splash of theater. From the first chords of “So It Goes,” Lowe set the tone: a slightly more restrained reading than in years past, but dripping with elegance. His voice still carries that mix of vulnerability and conviction that has defined his long, admirable career, and the crowd welcomed him with instant warmth. By the second song, “Went to a Party,” the perfect interplay between his melodic storytelling and the rock-solid pulse of the Straitjackets was already obvious. The setlist dipped deep into his classic catalog—Rockpile staples like “Heart” and “I Knew the Bride (When She Used to Rock ’n’ Roll)”—interspersed with more recent, contemplative gems from his 2024 album Indoor Safari . Songs such as “Lately I’ve Let Things Slide” and “Love Starvation” proved that Lowe continues to reinvent himself without ever drifting too far from the qualities that made him essential in the first place. Los Straitjackets enjoyed a spotlight moment of their own mid-concert, taking the stage without Lowe for a blistering instrumental double feature: a Ventures-style “Driving Guitars,” followed by a crowd-rousing take on Shocking Blue’s “Venus” that had the room on its feet. It was a burst of pure musicianship that reminded everyone why their sound is so instantly recognizable and joyously addictive. When Lowe returned, the mood shifted toward the intimate and emotional. “Trombone,” “House for Sale,” and “Raging Eyes” showcased his gift for blending country, pop, and soul with disarming simplicity. Then came the hits: “Blue on Blue,” the ever-brilliant “Cruel to Be Kind,” and of course “(What’s So Funny ’Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding,” which delivered the emotional high point of the night. The finale didn’t disappoint: “Heat of the City” and Rockpile’s beloved “When I Write the Book” wrapped the main set with a mix of nostalgia and celebration. For the encore, the Straitjackets stormed back for “Bird Dance Beat,” with Chris “Sprague” taking the lead—an exuberant, almost carnivalesque closer that sent everyone home grinning. What’s most striking is that at 76, Nick Lowe still radiates a grace and energy most performers half his age would envy. No relic-of-rock theatrics, no indulgent grandstanding—just a man, his guitar, his voice, and the songs that continue to matter. This was a beautifully balanced show: a celebration of a legacy, a nod to fresh material, and above all a demonstration that experience only sharpens the emotional force of great songwriting. At Sala Moon, Lowe and Los Straitjackets didn’t just play—they guided the audience on a compact but unforgettable journey through decades of pop-rock craftsmanship. Words and photos: Rhyan Paul

If you’ve ever wondered what would happen if a herd of mutant reindeer armed with electric guitars crash-landed in a neon-soaked future, you’re about to find out. On Saturday, December 20th , at 16 Toneladas Rock & Roll Club (Valencia) , the glorious lunacy known as El Reno Renardo returns — and they’re bringing Golden Peluco along for the ride. This isn’t just a concert. It’s a full-blown sci-fi fiesta , a chrome-plated orgy of riffs, satire, and questionable fashion choices. The promotional image alone looks like a mash-up between Tron , Mad Max , and a Mercadona Christmas catalog. Four shiny warriors in reflective armor, their faces bathed in LED glory, stare down the camera as if preparing to defend Earth from an invasion of bad taste. El Reno Renardo — Spain’s most beloved heavy metal parody act — are veterans of the absurd. Expect them to deliver a setlist that zigzags from medieval madness to internet memes faster than a caffeinated ferret. Their lyrics will make you laugh, cry, and possibly question your life choices. One moment you’ll be chanting along to a hymn about technology addiction, the next you’ll find yourself headbanging to a reworked children’s song about social decay. It’s art. It’s chaos. It’s beautiful. Supporting act Golden Peluco are equally committed to the sacred craft of nonsense. Their name alone suggests a man who moonlights as both disco prophet and failed shampoo commercial model. Together, these two bands promise a night of wild costume changes, sing-along anthems, and enough decibels to exfoliate your soul. Doors open at 23:00 , with the madness officially kicking off at 23:30 . Advance tickets are 25€ (or 30€ at the door), but the first 50 brave souls to commit get in for 22€ — a small price to pay for eternal bragging rights and mild tinnitus. So, if you’re tired of the same old Christmas playlists and want to swap “Jingle Bells” for “Reno Renardo Blows Up the Internet,” mark your calendars. On December 20th, 16 Toneladas becomes ground zero for the most gloriously unhinged metal night of the holiday season. Long live the Reno. Long live the Peluco. And may your hangover be gentle. For information and tickets: 16 Toneladas

The unbreakable legend of national punk-rock will review his entire career - in La Polla Records, The Kagas, The Meas, Gatillazo and his current band Tropa do Carallo - in what will be his only concert in 2026 in the province of Valencia and Castellón. Pirata Beach Fest will hold its eighth edition on July 8, 9, 10 and 11, at the Polígono Benieto de Gandía. In addition to Evaristo, groups such as La Fúmiga, Molotov, The Tyets, Talco, Non Servium, Mägo de Oz, Benito Kamelas, Boikot, La Fuga, Els Catarres and Buhos are part of the first poster preview of its eighth edition, tune, many more to be announced! Evaristo will approach the Pirata Bech Fest of Gandía accompanied by his band of musicians with great history, who have been part of his most recognised projects at the state and international level, especially throughout America. His audacity, courage, commitment, provocative lyrics and his iconic voice have earned him great respect and recognition in the Spanish music scene. Evaristo not dead! It will be a fast, vibrant and intense concert; full of emotions, where the anthems of punk-rock that have marked several generations will sound - loud and loud... And with classics that are still in force after more than 40 years! Gandía will once again become the epicentre of live music with the celebration of the eighth edition of the Pirata Beach Fest. The festival, consolidated as one of the great summer musical events at the national level, being held on the Valencian coast, offers a brave, intense and diverse programming that covers genres such as rock, rap, mixing and fusion ... Rays and sparkles! Located in the Polígono Benieto, a few minutes from the beach, it combines music, festive atmosphere and the Mediterranean breeze, attracting thousands of "pirates" from all over the national territory in search of free, committed and peacefully vindictive fun. Among the more than thirty proposals already discovered in this first poster advance, the presence of Evaristo, La Fúmiga, Molotov, The Tyets, Talco, Non Servium, Mägo de Oz, Benito Kamelas, Boikot, La Fuga, Els Catarres and Buhos. Without a doubt, a spectacular and vibrant cast of groups and artists that will make the "pirate life" even better... Watch out for the patch! Segismundo Toxicómano, La Élite, Auxili, Los de Marras, Linaje, Biznaga, Itaca Band, Sons of Aguirre & Scila, Malifeta, En Tol Sarmiento, Reincidentes, Doctor Prats, Green Valley, El Último ke zierre, El Diluvi, Naina, Manifa, Me fritos & the gimme cheetos, La Sra. Tomasa, Pedro Pastor, Afónica Naranjo and El sombrero del abuelo complete this first advance of a Pirate Gandía Fest that every year works hard to improve itself in the artistic and organisational. Highlight one more year the important presence of Valencian groups in an unequivocal and faithful commitment of the Pirata Beach Fest for the scene of the best rock, rap and local miscegenation. For tickets and more information: Pirata Beach

There are concerts — and then there are industrial awakenings. On December 11th , Valencia’s Sala Moon will turn into a mechanized temple of noise as Nitzer Ebb — the godfathers of EBM (Electronic Body Music) — march back into Spain to deliver a sermon in rhythm, rage, and pure analog adrenaline. Presented by Sturm Promotions and 16 Toneladas , this isn’t some nostalgic synthpop night for museum dwellers. No, this is the real thing : raw, pulsing, militaristic body beats forged in Thatcher’s Britain and sharpened over decades of sweat-soaked warehouse floors. “Join in the chant,” they once commanded — and Valencia will obey. Nitzer Ebb don’t just perform; they invade. Expect strobe lights slicing through the fog, metallic percussion hitting like hammer blows, and that signature command-vocal bark from Douglas McCarthy that could still start a revolution in a Berlin basement. The air will vibrate with the ghosts of “Control I’m Here” , “Murderous” , and “Let Your Body Learn” — songs that still sound like blueprints for rebellion. And opening the gates to this industrial inferno: Spammerheads , the Spanish electronic agitators who’ve been quietly crafting a sound that’s more virus than music — distorted, infectious, impossible to ignore. They’re the perfect prelude to Nitzer Ebb’s mechanized gospel: think cyberpunk sweat, flashing LEDs, and an audience moving like a single organism under machine command. Valencia might be known for paella and sunshine, but for one December night it’s turning cold, hard, and beautifully brutal. The floor will shake, the synths will scream, and the faithful will dance like factory sparks in the dark. So lace up your combat boots, polish your leather, and leave your subtlety at home. December 11th, Sala Moon — the machines are coming, and they want to dance. For tickets: Nitzer Ebb

By the time the sun dipped behind the cranes of Valencia’s Marina Norte, Festardor had already transformed into a glorious madhouse of riffs, rebellion, and very questionable footwear choices. It smelled like beer, freedom, and the faint singe of someone’s eyebrows after one too many flare ignitions. Five bands, one night — and a crowd that looked ready to overthrow a small government. Let’s get one thing straight: no one expected the openers to torch the place so early. But Me Fritos and the Gimme Cheetos came out swinging like punk rock gremlins hopped up on orange dust. Fast, filthy, and funny, their set was a fistfight between surf-punk riffs and pure chaos. They sounded like The Ramones if they’d grown up in a kebab shop. The crowd didn’t stand still for a second — and neither did anyone’s beer. Then came the legends of Galician ska anarchy — Dakidarría.Their brass section hit like a freight train of fiesta, and the whole Marina turned into one massive, sweaty dance floor. The horns screamed revolution while the guitars preached joy — a socialist conga line for the soul. By the third song, shirts were optional and morals were negotiable. Lendakaris Muertos stormed the stage next — furious, fast, and funny as hell. Their set was a blur of pogo pits, Basque sarcasm, and 30-second anthems that hit like espresso shots of pure dissent. One moment they’re mocking the system, the next they’re mocking themselves, and the crowd loves every savage second. If sarcasm were an Olympic sport, these guys would have gold medals and restraining orders. Then came El Drogas, the elder statesman of Spanish rock fury, dressed like a pirate philosopher who’s seen too much and still wants more. His voice is gravel, his energy nuclear. Every lyric lands like a punch to the ribs, every riff smells faintly of history and whiskey. You could feel generations colliding in that crowd — punks, poets, and parents shouting the same choruses like it was mass at the Church of Rock & Roll. And just when it felt like the night couldn’t burn any hotter, Talco marched in and dropped a sonic bomb. The Italians turned the pier into a riot with horns blaring like sirens from a revolution that never ended. The crowd went ballistic — chanting, crowd-surfing, and spilling beer like a communion of the damned. “Bella Ciao” hit, and suddenly, we weren’t just at a festival — we were part of something bigger, louder, sweatier. By the time the amps shut down, Valencia Marina Norte was still shaking. The sea breeze carried the echoes of trumpets, laughter, and one last shout of ¡Festardor, cabrones! Words and photos: Rhyan Paul

By the time Talco hit the stage, the Valencian night was already boiling — that peculiar Mediterranean chaos, half salt, half sweat, and 100% cerveza. The Festardor crowd had been fed on punk riffs and political rage all day, but when these Italian ska-punk anarchists rolled in, everything ignited like a Molotov under a full moon. Talco don’t play gigs — they stage revolts. Horns blared like sirens in a street protest, guitars slashed through the sea air, and frontman Dema spat verses like a man possessed, preaching solidarity and defiance with every syllable. The band ripped through St. Pauli , Bella Ciao , La Torre , and Combat Circus with the precision of a marching band on speed. It was sweat, ska, and social fury in perfect sync — a brass-fueled riot made for the people, by the people. The crowd turned into one massive organism — bouncing, shouting, chanting slogans that blurred the line between gig and demonstration. Flares went off, flags waved, and beer rained from the sky like a baptism of rebellion. You could feel Festardor’s concrete quiver under the stomp of thousands of boots shouting “¡No pasarán!” Talco have always been the street poet laureates of Europe’s punk underground, but here in Valencia Marina Norte, they felt like prophets of the people. Every trumpet blast sounded like hope breaking chains. Every chorus was a middle finger to apathy. By the end, we weren’t watching a concert — we were part of a cause. Dema raised his fist, the crowd answered, and for a few furious, beautiful minutes, it felt like the revolution might actually dance its way into being. Talco didn’t just headline Festardor. They hijacked it! Words and photos: Rhyan Paul

November 4, 2025 | Emo’s, Austin TX It was an Auckland-meets-Austin night when The Beths headlined Emo’s, touring behind their fourth album, Straight Line Was a Lie . Released in August on ANTI- Records and once again self-produced, the album is filled with the usual concise hooks, restless guitars, and Elizabeth Stokes’ lyrics that undercut their brightness with quiet unease. Opening were fellow New Zealanders Phoebe Rings , making their first Austin appearance on their first-ever U.S. tour. “We’re still a bit jet-lagged,” said singer and keyboardist Crystal Choi, who added, to the delight of the crowd, that they’d already made a stop at Buc-ee’s. Before “ Fading Star ,” she mentioned someone once described their sound as “sleepy disco.” It fits: ethereal synths, restrained beats, and melodies that floated throughout the venue. All around, a fitting opener to the headlining act of the night. When The Beths walked on, they went straight into “Straight Line Was a Lie” and “No Joy.” The last time they played Austin, they were opening for Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service in 2023, bands that have perfected the “sad song that doesn’t sound like a sad song” delivery. The jangle of “No Joy” recalled the sunlit melancholy of Death Cab’s “No Sunlight,” but Stokes’ delivery was dryer, the humor sharper, the unease more self-aware. Halfway through, the band paused to trade introductions and plug their tour blog, breakfastandtravelupdates.com , where they’ve documented every show (and meal) since 2019. They also joked about skipping the Austin barbecue this round, a practical move for anyone who has to sit in a tour bus for hours on end. Stokes later played “Mother, Pray for Me” solo, a quiet moment that made the room stand still. The band returned for “Little Death,” “I’m Not Getting Excited,” “Expert in a Dying Field,” and “Take.” The songs were faster and leaner than their studio versions, ending the night on a high note. Before leaving, Stokes thanked the crowd in their trademark dry humor: “We know you have Tuesday options. Thanks for choosing The Beths.” A small, perfect send-off from a band that never makes performing look effortless. Words and photos: Victor Gonzalez

The night started like a hangover waiting to happen — the kind of electric chaos only Festardor can birth. The sea was breathing diesel and cheap lager, kids were already half-feral, and then Dakidarría stormed the stage like a socialist thunderclap in Doc Martens. This was war disguised as a concert — a brass-soaked, punk-drenched declaration from the Galician underground. The horns screamed like sirens from a sinking ship, guitars shredded through the humid night, and the frontman spat every lyric like it was the last transmission before the system collapsed. There was no divide between band and crowd — just one sweaty, unified mob throwing fists, beers, and maybe a few moral codes into the sky. When they tore into “Fogo ao Sistema” , you could practically hear the sound of corrupt governments trembling somewhere far away. The pit was a whirlpool of limbs and liberation — no phones, no influencers, just pure, glorious disorder. At one point, they slipped into a reggae groove — a strange, hazy interlude where everyone caught their breath and swayed like revolutionaries at a beach party. But soon enough, the calm snapped. The next blast of brass hit like a caffeine overdose, and we were right back in the eye of the storm. The air smelled of sweat, weed, and defiance. The Mediterranean wind carried the noise out to sea like a pirate broadcast, and for one cracked-out hour, Marina Norte belonged to Dakidarría — no sponsors, no pretense, just truth, volume, and rage set to rhythm. By the end, people were hugging strangers, screaming slogans, and wiping saltwater and beer from their faces. You couldn’t tell if the tears were from joy, exhaustion, or politics — probably all three. Words and photos: Rhyan Paul

Valencia, brace yourself — the city’s getting its holiday jingle shaken and stirred by David Bisbal, and unless you already scored a ticket, you’re out in the cold. His “Todo Es Posible en Navidad – Gira 2025” stop at Roig Arena on December 6th is officially sold out , and that’s not just hype — it’s full-blown festive mania. Bisbal isn’t just singing carols. He’s detonating them. The man who gave Spain “Bulería” , “Ave María” , and a thousand perfectly timed hair flips is back with a sleigh full of pop energy and Latin soul. Expect sequins, snow machines, and enough vocal fireworks to light up the Mediterranean coast. This isn’t your average Christmas concert — it’s Christmas on caffeine , powered by Andalusian charm and arena-sized joy. Roig Arena, the new cathedral of sound in Valencia, will be dripping with tinsel, sweat, and euphoria as Bisbal turns the stage into his personal North Pole. Fans know what’s coming: he’ll croon, he’ll spin, he’ll shout “¡Vamos!” and ten thousand voices will answer back in glorious unison. It’s the kind of show that leaves you breathless, teary-eyed, and wondering how the hell a Christmas gig just turned into a full-blown fiesta. Tickets vanished faster than Santa on Red Bull, proving once again that Bisbal doesn’t just have fans — he has disciples. So if you missed out, grab your coat, find a hill near the Roig, and let the echoes of “Corazón Latino” drift through the Valencian night air. Because when Bisbal says “Todo es posible en Navidad” , he’s not kidding — miracles happen. Just not the miracle of extra tickets.