On Sunday 4 January, Valencia was briefly relocated several thousand kilometres south, as Estrellas de Buena Vista transformed the Auditorio Roig Arena into a living, breathing slice of Havana. This wasn’t just a concert — it was a celebration of Cuban musical history, delivered with elegance, warmth and an infectious sense of joy that rolled through the audience like a Caribbean breeze. Part of their “Live in Havana – Tour 2026”, the night felt less like a formal performance and more like an open invitation into a tradition that refuses to age, fade or be archived. Estrellas de Buena Vista are direct heirs to one of the most important cultural movements of the late 20th century: the Buena Vista Social Club phenomenon. Emerging in the 1990s, Buena Vista Social Club reintroduced the world to Cuba’s golden-era musicians — artists who had spent decades perfecting son, bolero, mambo and guajira away from international attention. While Buena Vista Social Club as an original entity belongs to history, Estrellas de Buena Vista keep that spirit vividly alive. Their lineup features veteran Cuban musicians and singers deeply connected to that tradition, many of whom have performed on the world’s most prestigious stages while remaining faithful to the roots of Havana’s musical neighbourhoods. This is not nostalgia tourism — it’s living heritage. From the opening notes, the Roig Arena was wrapped in warmth. Trumpets shimmered, the upright bass walked with confidence, guitars danced between rhythm and melody, and the percussion — rich, layered and effortlessly precise — carried everything forward with irresistible momentum. The vocal performances were a particular highlight. Every singer brought personality and emotional weight, whether delivering tender boleros, call-and-response son classics or joyful, rhythm-driven numbers that had much of the audience moving in their seats — and later, on their feet. What made the night special wasn’t just technical brilliance (which was abundant), but the generosity of the performance. Smiles were exchanged between musicians, solos were shared rather than showboated, and the sense of ensemble — of collective storytelling — was constant. Seeing Estrellas de Buena Vista live is to witness decades of experience distilled into relaxed confidence. These musicians don’t rush, don’t strain, and don’t compete — they converse through music. Every trumpet phrase, piano flourish and vocal harmony feels part of a long, ongoing dialogue that began in Havana dance halls generations ago and continues wherever this band performs. The visual presentation reinforced that sense of timelessness: classic attire, warm lighting, and an atmosphere that evoked old Havana without ever feeling staged or artificial. The Auditorio Roig Arena, increasingly establishing itself as one of Valencia’s key cultural venues, proved a perfect setting for this kind of performance. Its acoustics allowed the music to breathe, giving space to subtle dynamics as well as full, joyful crescendos. The audience — diverse in age and background — responded with sustained applause, standing ovations and visible emotional connection. Estrellas de Buena Vista delivered exactly what their name promises: stars of good sight, good feeling, and good music. This was an uplifting, expertly performed reminder that great songs don’t expire, and that cultural heritage is strongest when it’s shared live, face to face, night after night. For anyone in the room, the evening felt less like attending a concert and more like being welcomed into a tradition that continues to shine — warmly, proudly and very much alive. For more information: Buena Vista Words: The Music Mole / Photos: Estrellas De Buena Vista

December 30th. The dead zone of the calendar. That strange, lawless stretch of time where nobody knows what day it is, wallets are empty, livers are compromised and society is already half-collapsed in anticipation of New Year’s Eve. Perfect conditions for something dangerous. Inside 16 Toneladas, Valencia’s concrete bunker of bad decisions, Orkesta Paraíso detonated reality with the subtlety of a pipe bomb taped to a jukebox. This was not a concert.This was a hostile takeover. Five men in masks stormed the stage like criminals who’d already burned their exit routes. No greeting. No easing in. Just instant impact. The opening chords hit and suddenly we were knee-deep in the sacred scriptures of La Polla Records, Kortatu, Barricada and Piperrak — but twisted, throttled, and dragged violently back onto the street where they belong.This wasn’t tribute. Tribute is polite. This was armed robbery. They didn’t honour these songs — they kidnapped them, duct-taped them to distortion pedals and hurled them back at the crowd as flaming relics of punk’s most unkillable DNA. Nostalgia, rage and joy all smashed together, leaking beer and sweat onto the floor. The masks weren’t costumes - they were a warning! From the first song, the idea of a “band” and an “audience” dissolved completely. Orkesta Paraíso don’t perform at you — they consume you. The pit became the stage. The stage became theoretical. Microphones were shared, grabbed, screamed into by strangers who hadn’t planned on singing but found themselves doing it anyway. Irony and sincerity drank from the same bottle and neither bothered checking the label. Beer flew. Not casually — aggressively. High-arc, foam-heavy throws that felt less like celebration and more like punctuation. Every chorus was a riot chant. Every breakdown a group hallucination. Then came the moment where sanity finally gave up. Mid-set, the guitarist disappeared. For a second, people looked around, confused — and then he re-emerged crowd-surfing on a blow-up alligator, wearing wings and a carrot nose, floating above a sea of outstretched hands like some deranged punk deity on a reptilian raft. This was the point where the venue officially lost control of time. Phones were abandoned. Drinks were dropped. Any remaining dignity was trampled underfoot. The band continued, whilst the guirarist rode an inflatable predator, beer splashing, bodies buckling, the pit roaring like it had just witnessed a prophecy fulfilled. If you’re looking for symbolism, it was this:punk rock refusing to sink, even when it’s ridiculous. What makes Orkesta Paraíso dangerous isn’t just the chaos — it’s the precision inside it. Beneath the madness, the band are tight as hell. The songs hit hard because they’re respected, even as they’re abused. Every riff lands. Every chorus explodes. The masks don’t hide incompetence — they amplify intent. This is punk rock as deranged street carnival. A place where humour doesn’t cancel fury, where joy doesn’t dilute politics, and where the only rule is participation. By the final songs, the room was soaked. Hair plastered to faces. Voices shredded beyond repair. People hugging strangers like they’d survived something together — because they had. Orkesta Paraíso at 16 Toneladas wasn’t a gig you attended.It was something that happened to you. On December 30th, while the rest of the city gently coasted toward the end of the year, Orkesta Paraíso set fire to the past, surfed it on an inflatable animal and hurled it back at the present with a grin under the mask. No fourth wall. No safe distance. No refunds for lost sanity. Just punk rock, dragged screaming into the now — and laughing while it burns. Tommorow is going to hurt..... Words and photos: Rhyan Paul

The city was already humming like a refrigeration unit on the brink of mechanical suicide when we staggered into the Loco Club — that low-lit bunker where the sound system hits like a police interrogation and the beer tastes like it’s been filtered through a radiator. It was a fundraiser, they said. A benevolent gathering. A noble cause. But I’ve seen noble causes, and they don’t usually come with this much distortion or this many boots to the ribs. This was charity by way of blunt-force trauma — a three-band assault in the name of kicking cancer where it hurts most: the wallet. The whole damned circus began with Kill The President, a name that alone could get you on several watchlists and invited me deeper into the sort of darkness that Hunter himself would’ve called a “public service.” They didn’t startplaying so much as they detonated, unleashing bursts of hardcore so vicious you could feel your fillings vibrating like a dope fiend’s pulse at dawn. Short songs, no breathing room, no speeches — just sonic terrorism in support of medical science. A pit opened instantly, swallowing anyone foolish enough to maintain vertical dignity. The amps roared like jet engines. The crowd howled like hyenas. No pity, no ribbons, no polite applause. Next came Spin-Off, returning from some long absence that made the crowd behave as if astronauts had finally come back from Mars with new intelligence on how to properly pogo. Their melodic punk had the strange emotional weight of an old lover showing up unexpectedly at your door — familiar, dangerous, and loudly undoing years of attempted maturity. They tore into their set with joyful violence, turning nostalgia into ammunition. Every chorus was a shovel digging up graves and refusing to rebury the bones. The crowd screamed along, half in tune, half in delirium, all in solidarity. Then came The Hawaiians, those deranged island missionaries armed with surf riffs, pop-punk charm, and shirts loud enough to cause seizures. They dragged familiar classics through amplification hell at twice the speed, turning covers into weapons and the room into a pogo-soaked tropical fever dream. Imagine a beach party hosted in a war bunker. Imagine surf rock drinking Red Bull in a locked bathroom. Imagine joy without restraint and chaos without apology. That’s where we were now — sweating, laughing, screaming, half drunk and wholly alive. And just when our legs had turned to rubber and the lungs were petitioning the brain for formal retirement, C.F.G. took over the decks for the last act of controlled demolition. A DJ set that kept the dead dancing and the living mildly terrified. Punk classics, obscure cuts, and enough rhythmic assault to keep the bartenders in overtime. No one left early. No one wanted to. Beneath the beer haze and tinnitus-inducing frequencies lurked the point of the whole damned affair: money for the Spanish Association Against Cancer. Real funds for a real fight. No corporate cushioning, no sterile press release. Just punks raising hell so scientists can do their jobs. Tonight the ticket bought research funding and the ride came with whiplash, bruised ribs, and a sudden renewed interest in medical science. Not all revolutions come with rifles. Some come with guitars, distortion pedals, raffle tickets, and the collective refusal to accept helplessness. On this night in Valencia, punk rock didn’t cure cancer — but it damn well paid for part of the fight. Words and photos: Rhyan Paul

It’s New Year’s Eve. The calendar is bleeding out its final seconds, fireworks are misfiring in the distance, and the nation is pretending—once again—that next year will be calmer, cleaner, more reasonable. That illusion has exactly ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE. Because on Saturday 31 January 2026, the Plaza de Toros Cubierta de Villena will be hijacked by a travelling gang of sonic arsonists known as FCK CNSRSHP, and the lineup is now locked, loaded and officially dangerous. No rumours. No maybes. No polite indie filler. This is the real list, written in sweat and court summons: Narco – Andalusian agit-rap lunatics, weaponising satire like a Molotov cocktail with a sense of humour. Koma – Groove-metal rage merchants, dragging heaviness through the dirt and daring it to fight back. Porretas – Barrio rock lifers, still drunk on riffs, honesty and the kind of truth you only hear after midnight. Kaos Urbano – Oi! street discipline and working-class fury, boots laced tight and aimed straight at the system. Envidia Kotxina – Ska-punk bile and bounce, turning bitterness into movement and sarcasm into cardio. Loncho Velasco – Urban punk storyteller, spitting verses like confessions ripped from a police report. Kaotiko – Punk rock veterans with choruses built for mass shouting and beers thrown skyward. Segismundo Toxicómano – Colombian hardcore royalty, raw, relentless and allergic to silence. Villena in January is cold, hard and perfect for bad ideas. The covered bullring becomes a sealed chamber of distortion, where sound has nowhere to escape and every chant comes back twice as angry. No sunshine clichés. No corporate nonsense. Just bodies, noise, and a shared understanding that music is still a weapon if you swing it hard enough. While the rest of Spain raises glasses to “new beginnings,” FCK CNSRSHP raises the volume and laughs. This festival exists because someone, somewhere, keeps trying to tell artists what they can and can’t say — and these bands have made entire careers out of replying with feedback and profanity. This is punk.This is rap.This is hardcore.This is rock without permission. So here we are: 31 December. The last night of the year. One month before Villena turns into a pressure cooker of sweat, slogans and blown vocal cords. If your New Year’s resolution involves safety, silence or subtlety — burn it now. If it involves shouting until something finally gives,FCK CNSRSHP is already counting you in. 31 January. Villena. One month to go.No filters. No forgiveness. No fucking censorship. For tickets and more information: FCK CNSRSHP

Canadian-born and now rising as one of pop’s most compelling new artists, Tori Lord makes a striking entrance with her debut single “Never Be.” Released on October 10, 2025, this track introduces listeners to an artist who is at once emotionally raw, musically refined, and unafraid to explore heartbreak with clarity and courage. A Story Told Through Sound“Never Be” captures that familiar yet painful moment when you realize a relationship wasn’t ever going to last — not because someone did something wrong, but because the truth finally came into focus. There’s a sincere vulnerability in the lyrics and delivery that elevates the song beyond a typical breakup ballad, embracing both acceptance and self-reflection with grace. Tori Lord: A Background Built on ArtistryAccording to Tori’s official bio, her journey started long before this single dropped. She grew up performing lead roles in national theatre productions in Toronto and sang with Canada’s top youth choirs. Early on, she even shared the stage with Celine Dion during the Let’s Talk About Love tour — an experience that helped shape her command of vocal expression. What makes Lord’s story especially intriguing is how she blends this rich musical foundation with smart modern pop instincts. Collaborating with acclaimed producer Marty Martino and songwriter Theo Tams, and guided by mentor Rob Wells, she integrates her choral roots and love of harmony into sleek, piano-driven pop that feels both timeless and contemporary. The “Never Be” music video extends the song’s emotional depth into cinematic visuals. The piece pairs intimate performance moments with evocative imagery that mirrors the song’s emotional duality — moving between moments of clarity and lingering wistfulness, much like the journey of letting go itself. Tori Lord’s debut isn’t just a song — it’s a statement. From lyrical honesty to rich harmonic textures and heartfelt delivery, “Never Be” marks her as a voice worth following. It’s a song for anyone who’s ever opened their heart and learned something transformative in the process. Watch the official video here: YouTube For more information: Tori Lord

Blaze Bayley doesn’t tour so much as invade. And in January 2026, Spain is once again in the crosshairs. The former Iron Maiden frontman, cult metal hero and one of heavy music’s great survivors is bringing his Spain 2026 tour to Valencia, Barcelona, Vitoria, Gijón, Valladolid and Guadalajara — a run of intimate, sweat-soaked club shows that promise zero nostalgia-by-numbers and maximum volume, heart and defiance. Expect a set built around Silicon Messiah, choice cuts from the Iron Maiden era, and the unkillable spirit of a man who has made resilience an art form.This isn’t a legacy lap. This is Blaze Bayley doing what he has always done best: standing his ground. Born Bayley Alexander Cooke in Birmingham and raised in Wolverhampton, Blaze Bayley came up the hard way — cutting his teeth in the UK metal underground with Wolfsbane, a band whose snarling energy and street-level grit earned them a rabid following in the late ’80s and early ’90s. When Iron Maiden came calling in 1994, after the departure of Bruce Dickinson, Bayley stepped into one of the most unforgiving roles in rock history. What followed was one of heavy metal’s most debated chapters. During his tenure with Maiden, Bayley recorded The X Factor (1995) and Virtual XI (1998), albums that dared to explore darker, more introspective territory. Time has been kind to those records — once misunderstood, now reappraised as bold, emotionally raw entries in the Maiden canon. Songs like Sign of the Cross, Man on the Edge and Futureal still hit with ferocity, especially live, where Blaze’s voice carries a grainy, human power entirely its own. After leaving Iron Maiden in 1999, many expected Blaze Bayley to fade into footnote status. Instead, he doubled down. His 2000 solo debut Silicon Messiah was a declaration of independence — sharp, melodic, defiant heavy metal that proved Bayley wasn’t just surviving post-Maiden, he was thriving. Tracks like Ghost in the Machine and Stare at the Sunbecame instant fan favourites, laying the foundation for a solo career defined by honesty, grit and relentless touring. Over the next two decades, Bayley released a formidable body of work, including the acclaimed Infinite Entanglementtrilogy, which fused sci-fi concepts with deeply personal storytelling. It’s rare to find an artist whose lyrics feel both cosmic and painfully grounded — Blaze manages both, often within the same song. What truly cements Blaze Bayley’s legend isn’t just the music — it’s the fight. He has weathered career upheaval, financial collapse, a near-fatal heart attack in 2016, and the kind of industry indifference that would have ended lesser artists. Instead, Blaze rebuilt everything from the ground up, reconnecting directly with fans, touring constantly, and turning every show into a communal act of defiance. There’s no rock-star detachment here. Blaze Bayley meets his audience eye to eye — signing merch, sharing stories, and delivering performances that feel earned, not inherited. This January run through Spain is exactly where Blaze thrives: rock clubs, close quarters, no safety net. With Baja California confirmed as special guests on several dates, the tour promises high-octane nights fueled by sweat, riffs and the shared understanding that heavy metal is at its best when it’s real. These shows won’t be about rewriting history. They’ll be about owning it. Blaze Bayley doesn’t need to prove anything anymore — but every night on stage, he does it anyway. Spain, prepare yourselves. The Messiah is silicon, the Maiden still flies, and the fire is very much alive. For tickets and more information: Blaze Bayley

By the time December 30 crawls out of the calendar like a wounded animal, Valencia will be knee-deep in forced cheer, plastic smiles and people pretending they’re ready for a “fresh start.” This is when Orkesta Paraíso strike — masked, lawless and vibrating at a frequency just shy of public endangerment — turning 16 Toneladas into a psychedelic punk asylum where dignity is the first casualty.This is not a band - this is a hallucination with amplifiers. Five men clad in masks tear into the sacred texts of La Polla Records, Kortatu, Barricada and Piperrak, not as tribute but as armed robbery. These songs are dragged screaming back onto the street, beaten into shape and launched at the crowd like Molotov cocktails of nostalgia, rage and joy. It’s punk rock reimagined as a deranged street carnival, where irony, sincerity and chaos drink from the same bottle and nobody checks the label. There is no fourth wall here. Orkesta Paraíso don’t perform at you — they absorb you, chew you up and spit you back into the pit, reborn, sweating and slightly confused about what year it is. The masks aren’t costumes; they’re a warning. Then comes Sin Propina, the calm before the next emotional storm — though “calm” is a dangerous word. Fronted by Aris, formerly of Transfer, this is rock with scars, memory and intent. Where Orkesta Paraíso deal in glorious excess, Sin Propina hit with something sharper: songs that remember what it felt like to believe rock music could save you from the world, or at least explain why it keeps kicking your teeth in. Together, this double bill isn’t entertainment — it’s a year-end reckoning. And 16 Toneladas? The perfect crime scene. A venue that understands rock’n’roll should be physical, uncomfortable and faintly unhinged. By the end of the night the floor will be sticky, the air unbreathable, and everyone inside will swear — hand on heart — that something important just happened, even if they can’t fully remember what. This is not a gig for tourists.This is not a night for resolutions.This is a last blast of honesty before the clock resets. Bring earplugs, bring friends, bring poor judgement.Leave your sanity at the door. For tickets and more information: 16 Toneladas

Some gigs feel planned.Some feel important.And then there are nights at 16 Toneladas where the ceiling sweats, the floor vibrates like it’s had three espressos and a bad idea, and you realise nobody involved has any intention of behaving. This was one of those nights. Pink Socks went on first, which felt generous of them, because by the end of their set the room was already halfway to needing structural reinforcement and a written apology. They opened like they’d just fallen out of a WhatsApp argument and decided to settle it with volume. No easing in, no foreplay — just straight into it, blasting through a set that felt less like a concert and more like a pirate radio broadcast hijacked by idiots with guitars. Titles flew past like threats scribbled on bathroom walls:“Fuck Ambiguos”, “Cayetano de la Calle Borroka”, “Parkour en Magaluf”, “Puta Real Madrid”.Each one landed like a punchline and a provocation at the same time. Pink Socks don’t sing songs so much as lob ideas at your head and see which ones stick. There were fake intros, real intros, intros to the intros. Shout-outs that went nowhere. Jokes that shouldn’t have worked but absolutely did. Somewhere between “Mis Primeros Influencers” and “Tips Para Grupo de Punk”, the band fully weaponised stupidity and turned it into a working philosophy. It was fast, loud, knowingly dumb and weirdly smart about it. Punk as satire. Hardcore as meme culture. The kind of set where you laugh, then realise your ears are bleeding, then laugh again because you deserve it. By the time they wrapped up with “Skinhead por Obligación” and “Rita”, the room was primed, cooked and lightly traumatised. Perfect conditions Then Strawberry Hardcore came on and decided to burn the building down emotionally. If Pink Socks were the chaotic warm-up act throwing lit matches around, Strawberry Hardcore were the accelerant. No messing about. No irony breaks. Just straight-ahead, clenched-teeth, no-exit hardcore delivered with the urgency of people who genuinely believe standing still is dangerous. Their setlist read like a life résumé written in permanent marker:“La Gran Comedia”, “Cerveza y Pecado”, “Punk Forever”, “Todos Vamos a Morir” — no metaphors, no apologies, just statements of fact screamed into a room that already knew. There was something beautifully direct about it. No posing, no speeches. Songs ripped through one after another, each one shorter than your patience and twice as angry. “Huyendo Hacia Adelante” felt less like a song title and more like the night’s mission statement. By the time they hit “Perdido en Silent Hill” and “Me Suicidé Hace Años”, the crowd was a single organism: heads down, fists up, brains switched off in the healthiest possible way. This wasn’t nostalgia hardcore — this was still-bothered, still-moving, still-hitting-you-in-the-chest hardcore. Closing with “Mártires del Rock” felt right. Not in a heroic sense, more in the “we’re all still here, somehow” sense. Bruised, smiling, ears ringing, ready to do it all again tomorrow. This wasn’t a polished night.It wasn’t pretty.It definitely wasn’t safe. But it was alive! Pink Socks turned punk into absurdist theatre, turning jokes into weapons and chaos into a setlist. Strawberry Hardcore followed by reminding everyone why hardcore exists in the first place: because sometimes shouting is the most honest thing you can do. Two bands. Two approaches. One perfect mess of a night at 16 Toneladas that left the room louder, sweatier and slightly less sane than it started. Exactly as it should be.......

There’s something quietly unhinged — and deeply lovable — about a Christmas song that arrives not with sleigh bells and syrup, but with punk rock muscle memory and a calypso grin. Santa’s Naughty List, the comeback track from Neon Animal, does exactly that: it sways where it should snarl, smiles where it could sneer, and ends up sounding like a sunburnt postcard sent from a bar at the edge of punk history. The story behind the track is as punk as it gets. Following a relentless run of touring the USA and Spain as the current frontman of legendary Cleveland punks Dead Boys, Mark Thorn was forced into an unexpected pause when original Dead Boys guitarist Cheetah Chrome literally broke his arm. That pause coincided with the Dead Boys’ early Christmas release (It’s Gonna Be A) Punk Rock Christmas, a Cleopatra Records drop featuring a murderers’ row of punk royalty — Clem Burke (Blondie), Glen Matlock (Sex Pistols) and Thorn himself handling lead vocals. After reuniting for the first time in two years with fellow Neon Animal founder and bassist Jonathan Gaglione, Thorn channeled that festive restlessness into Santa’s Naughty List — a song that feels less like a novelty and more like a sideways reinvention of what a holiday track can be when written by people who’ve lived inside loud guitars for decades. Musically, Santa’s Naughty List is a left turn that somehow makes perfect sense. Built on contagious choruses, buoyant rhythms and steel drums courtesy of guest Ruthie Cerny, the track leans into paradisiac calypso vibes without losing its punk backbone. There’s warmth here, but it’s the warmth of a beer-soaked beach bar rather than a fireplace. The rhythm section — Gaglione on bass and Iv K. Lizz on drums — keeps things loose and propulsive, while Thorn’s guitar work proves he knows exactly when not to overplay. Vocally, Thorn sounds liberated. There’s no need to channel the raw snarl of the Dead Boys here; instead, he delivers a performance that’s playful, melodic and knowingly mischievous — like someone who understands that growing older in punk doesn’t mean growing dull. For those who’ve followed Neon Animal, this curveball makes sense. The band has always existed slightly out of step with expectations — punk-rooted but stylistically curious, built on chemistry rather than conformity. Thorn and Gaglione’s songwriting partnership has never been about repeating past glories; it’s about movement, instinct and refusing to calcify. Santa’s Naughty List doesn’t sound like a band chasing relevance. It sounds like musicians who’ve earned the right to have fun on their own terms — and who understand that irreverence, joy and groove can be just as rebellious as distortion and volume. The real achievement here is longevity. This isn’t a track that only works in December. Strip away the seasonal framing and you’re left with a song that breathes, swings and sticks. It’s festive without being disposable — a rarity in the Christmas-song industrial complex. In a genre obsessed with authenticity, Santa’s Naughty List feels honest precisely because it refuses to play by the expected rules. Punk doesn’t always have to be angry. Sometimes, it just needs to dance badly and mean it. So pour yourself a filthy glass of Baileys, crack open the Quality Street, get some tinsel around your baubles and check it out for yourself: - Watch the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jt46H9I29hw Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/4ampegVXKxM8Sc4gEtxBzl If Santa’s Naughty List made you smile, sway, or reconsider what a punk Christmas song can be, do your civic duty and vote for it as Classic Rock’s Track of the Week: https://www.loudersound.com/music/tracks-singles/classic-rocks-tracks-of-the-week-december-22-2025 Because sometimes the best gifts don’t come wrapped — they come swinging.

Rock City, Valencia. 9 January.Circle it in permanent marker. Cross out any plans involving sleep, dignity or restraint. Because this isn’t just another hardcore night — this is Kaos Urbano hitting 30 years of street-level fury, and they’re not coming to reminisce. They’re coming to flatten the place. This is the kind of show where the floor gets sticky before the first breakdown and stays that way until the lights come up and everyone looks ten years older, soaked in sweat and grinning like idiots who just survived something important. Thirty years in, Kaos Urbano are still allergic to bullshit. No polish. No midlife crisis reinvention. No “legacy act” nonsense. Just the same core mission they’ve carried since day one: songs built like fists, lyrics aimed straight at the teeth, and a live show that treats the audience as accomplices, not spectators. This isn’t a greatest-hits victory lap. It’s a survival report. Three decades of resistance, frustration, working-class rage and communal release — delivered at full volume, with zero interest in going quietly. Expect songs that hit like brickwork, chants that turn the room into a single lung, and breakdowns designed to empty the pit and refill it instantly. At Rock City, those anthems won’t echo — they’ll detonate. Before Kaos Urbano even step on stage, A Tercio Pelao will have already turned the room into a pressure cooker. These are songs that smell of concrete, beer and streetlights — hardcore that doesn’t ask permission and doesn’t slow down for anyone. They don’t warm up crowds; they activate them. Expect fast, loud, no-frills aggression that sets the tone early and leaves the pit feral before the headliners even plug in. This is the kind of opening set that doesn’t get applause so much as a collective nod: yeah, we’re in it now. Rock City isn’t a neutral space — it’s a proving ground. Low ceiling, tight sightlines, sound that punches back. This is a venue that rewards bands who bring intensity and punishes anyone who tries to coast. On 9 January, it’ll be the perfect container for chaos: bodies colliding, sweat dripping from the walls, voices hoarse by the second chorus. This is hardcore as it’s meant to be experienced — too close, too loud, too real. There will be no safe distance. No phones held politely at chest height. No ironic detachment. Just fists in the air, boots on shoulders, and lyrics screamed by people who mean every word. This is community forged through volume and velocity — strangers united by the need to feel something real at the start of a new year. Kaos Urbano don’t celebrate 30 years by looking back. They do it by standing their ground, turning the amps up, and reminding everyone why they mattered then — and why they still matter now. For tickets and more information: Enterticket

Some bands grow old quietly.Porretas do not.... On 14 February 2026, while the rest of the city fumbles with roses, reservations and overpriced romance, Sala Repvblicca will be hosting something far more honest: 35 years of Porretas, blasted at full volume, with sweat on the walls and choruses shouted by people who learned half their philosophy in front of a stage, beer in hand. This isn’t nostalgia.This is survival. Formed in Hortaleza, Madrid, Porretas have spent three and a half decades doing what they’ve always done best: telling the truth loudly, with distortion, humour, rage and heart in equal measure. They’ve never chased trends, never polished the rough edges, never pretended to be anything other than a working-class rock band with stories to tell and zero interest in shutting up. Thirty-five years later, those stories still hit. Maybe harder. Because Porretas aren’t about fashion — they’re about life. The shitty jobs. The mates who didn’t make it. The bars that disappeared. The nights that saved you. The jokes you tell to survive the next day. Their songs don’t posture; they walk beside you, pint by pint, riff by riff. Over the years, Porretas have built a catalogue that reads like a handbook for living on your own terms. Songs that smell of smoke and asphalt, lyrics that laugh in the face of authority without ever losing their humanity. Tracks like “Si Nos Dejáis”, “Pájaro Negro”, “Manolo Kabezabolo”, “Ahora” or “Y Aún Arde Madrid” aren’t just songs — they’re shared experiences, screamed back at the band by rooms full of people who know every word because those words meant something at the right time. And that’s the key: Porretas didn’t just soundtrack youth. They aged with their audience, without softening the blows or cleaning up the mess. Sala Repvblicca is the perfect setting for this celebration. Big enough to contain the chaos, close enough to feel every kick drum in your ribs. Expect a career-spanning set that pulls no punches — old classics, deep cuts, and that unmistakable Porretas energy that turns concerts into collective therapy sessions with guitars. This is a band that still plays like it matters. No cruise-control rock. No going through the motions. When Porretas step on stage, it’s still now, still urgent, still necessary. And yes, there will be a special guest band, because Porretas have always understood that rock isn’t a solo act — it’s a family, a scene, a chain of noise passed from one generation to the next. Celebrating 35 years isn’t about looking back. It’s about proving you’re still here. In a world obsessed with reinvention, Porretas’ greatest rebellion has been consistency. Same attitude. Same fire. Same refusal to be polite. They’ve earned every scar, every chorus, every night like this one. So on 14 February 2026, forget the clichés. Skip the candlelight. Go where the real love lives — in a room full of people shouting the same lines they’ve been shouting for decades, because some things don’t age, they dig in. Porretas aren’t celebrating their past.They’re celebrating the fact they’re still standing and Valencia is about to feel every one of those 35 years — loud, proud, and gloriously unfiltered. For ticekts and more information: Sala Repvblicca

Put the sign on the door, chain the bar shut and tell the neighbours to give up now — La Fuga and Benito Kamelas have officially SOLD OUT the Roig Arena for their 7 March collision in Valencia. No tickets. No mercy. No last-minute miracles. If you’re not already in, you’re outside pressing your face against the glass while the rock & roll faithful warm up their vocal cords inside. This isn’t a marketing triumph — it’s a statement. Two bands forged in sweat, highways and heartbreak have just proven that Spanish rock doesn’t need hype when it has history. La Fuga don’t sell out venues — they earn them. Born in Reinosa and raised on the unforgiving circuit of clubs and festivals, La Fuga have built a catalogue that sounds like it was written in the back of vans and at the wrong end of the night. Albums like A las doce, Calles de papel and Negociando gasolina didn’t chase trends — they chased truth. That’s why, decades later, people are still screaming Por verte sonreír like it’s a personal manifesto. A sold-out Roig Arena isn’t a peak — it’s another mile marker on a road they’ve never stopped driving. For Benito Kamelas, this sold-out show hits different. Valencia’s own heartbreak merchants have turned hometown loyalty into a weapon, and the Roig Arena is now officially at capacity thanks to a fanbase that treats every Benito Kamelas gig like a family reunion that got slightly out of hand. Songs like Quiero, Vida loca and He decidido don’t just get sung — they get confessed. This is barrio rock with receipts, and Valencia showed up early to make sure nobody missed out. The Roig Arena is still writing its live-music legend, but nights like this are how venues earn their reputation. A full house. No spare air. Thousands of voices waiting to explode at the first chord. This won’t be a concert — it’ll be a pressure cooker. In an era of half-empty halls and inflated numbers, this sold-out show means something real. It means songs still matter. It means history still counts. It means Spanish rock, when it’s honest and loud enough, can still shut the doors and shake the foundations. On 7 March, La Fuga and Benito Kamelas won’t be asking for permission. They’ve already taken the place.